HE  KILLER 

STEWARPEDWAW)  WHITE 


H 
UBRAKT 

or 

WIL 
BUCK- 


LIE: 


CAL:-.-      r 
SAIWT^  C3RLJZ 


THE    KILLER 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  CLAIM  JUMPERS 
THE  WESTERNERS 
THE  BLAZED  TRAIL 

ARIZONA  NIGHTS 
BLAZED  TRAIL  STORIES 
THE  CABIN 
CAMP  AND  TRAIL 
CONJUROR'S  HOUSE 

THE  FOREST 

THH  SIGN  AT  SIX 

THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME 

THE  GRAY  DAWN 

THERIVERMAN 


THE  SILENT  PLACES 
THE  ADVENTURES  OF  BOBBY  ORDE 
THE  MOUNTAINS 
THE  PASS 

THE  MAGIC  FOREST 
THE  LAND  OF  FOOTPRINTS 
AFRICAN  CAMP  FIRES 
THE  REDISCOVERED  COUNTRY 
GOLD 
STMBA 

THE  LEOPARD  WOMAN 
THE  MYSTERY 
(With  Samuel  Hopkins  Adams 


He  had  been  shot  through  the  body  and  was  dead.    His  rifle 
lay  across  a  rock  trained  carefully  on  the  trail. 


THE   KILLER 


BY 
STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 


" 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  1920,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE    &    COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYBIGHT,  1919,  1920,  BY  THE  RED  BOOK  CORPORATION 


CONTENTS 

THE  KELLER        

THE  ROAD  AGEHT 


THE  TIDE I57 

CLIMBING  FOR  GOATS      . 189 

MOISTURE,  A  TRACSE .  211 

TEE  RANCH 229 


THE    KILLER 


THE    KILLER 


CHAPTER  I 

I  want  to  state  right  at  the  start  that  I  am  writing  this 
story  twenty  years  after  it  happened  solely  because  my  wife 
and  Senor  Buck  Johnson  insist  on  it.  Myself,  I  don't  think 
it  a  good  yarn.  It  hasn't  any  love  story  in  it;  and  there 
isn't  any  plot.  Things  just  happened,  one  thing  after  the 
other.  There  ought  to  be  a  yarn  in  it  somehow,  and  I  sup- 
pose if  a  fellow  wanted  to  lie  a  little  he  could  make  a  tail- 
twister  out  of  it.  Anyway,  here  goes;  and  if  you  don't  like 
it,  you  know  you  can  quit  at  any  stage  of  the  game. 

It  happened  when  I  was  a  kid  and  didn't  know  any  better 
than  to  do  such  things.  They  dared  me  to  go  up  to  Hoop- 
er's ranch  and  stay  all  night;  and  as  I  had  no  information 
on  either  the  ranch  or  its  owner,  I  saddled  up  and  went. 
It  was  only  twelve  miles  from  our  Box  Springs  ranch — a  nice 
easy  ride.  I  should  explain  that  heretofore  I  had  ridden  the 
Gila  end  of  our  range,  which  is  so  far  away  that  only  vague 
rumours  of  Hooper  had  ever  reached  me  at  all.  He  was 
reputed  a  tough  old  devil  with  horrid  habits;  but  that  meant 
little  to  me.  The  tougher  and  horrider  they  came,  the  bet- 
ter they  suited  me — so  I  thought.  Just  to  make  every- 
thing entirely  clear  I  will  add  that  this  was  in  the  year  of 
1897  and  the  Soda  Springs  valley  in  Arizona. 

I 


THE    KILLER 

By  these  two  facts  you  old  timers  will  gather  the  setting 
•of  my  tale.  Indian  days  over;  "nester"  days  with  frame 
houses  and  vegetable  patches  not  yet  here.  Still  a  few  guns 
packed  for  business  purposes;  Mexican  border  handy;  no 
railroad  in  to  Tombstone  yet;  cattle  rustlers  lingering  in  the 
Galiuros;  train  hold-ups  and  homicide  yet  prevalent  but 
frowned  upon;  favourite  tipple  whiskey  toddy  with  sugar; 
but  the  old  fortified  ranches  all  gone;  longhorns  crowded 
out  by  shorthorn  blaze-head  Herefords  or  near-Herefords; 
some  indignation  against  Alfred  Henry  Lewis's  Wolfmlle  as 
a  base  libel;  and,  also  but,  no  gasoline  wagons  or  pumps, 
no  white  collars,  no  tourists  pervading  the  desert,  and  the 
Injins  still  wearing  blankets  and  overalls  at  their  reserva- 
tions instead  of  bead  work  on  the  railway  platforms  when 
the  Overland  goes  through.  In  other  words,  we  were  wild 
and  wooly,  but  sincerely  didn't  know  it. 

While  I  was  saddling  up  to  go  take  my  dare,  old  Jed  Parker 
came  and  leaned  himself  up  against  the  snubbing  post  of 
the  corral.  He  watched  me  for  a  while,  and  I  kept  quiet, 
knowing  well  enough  that  he  had  something  to  say. 

"Know  Hooper?"  he  asked. 

"I've  seen  him  driving  by,"  said  I. 

I  had:  a  little  humped,  insignificant  figure  with  close-crop- 
ped white  hair  beneath  a  huge  hat.  He  drove  all  hunched 
up.  His  buckboard  was  a  rattletrap,  old,  insulting  challenge 
to  every  little  stone  in  the  road;  but  there  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  the  horses  or  their  harness.  We  never  held 
much  with  grooming  in  Arizona,  but  these  beasts  shone  like 
bronze.  Good  sizeable  horses,  clean  built — well,  I  better 
not  get  started  talking  horse!  They're  the  reason  I  had 

4 


THE    KILLER 

never  really  sized  up  the  old  man  the  few  times  I'd  passed 
him. 

"  Well,  he's  a  tough  bird,"  said  Jed. 

"Looks  like  a  harmless  old  cuss — but  mean,"  says  I. 

" About  this  trip,"  said  Jed,  after  I'd  saddled  and  coiled 
my  rope — "don't,  and  say  you  did." 

I  didn't  answer  this,  but  led  my  horse  to  the  gate. 

"Well,  don't  say  as  how  I  didn't  tell  you  all  about  it," 
said  Jed,  going  back  to  the  bunk  house. 

Miserable  old  coot!  I  suppose  he  thought  he  had  told 
me  all  about  it!  Jed  was  always  too  loquacious! 

But  I  hadn't  racked  along  more  than  two  miles  before  a 
man  cantered  up  who  was  perfectly  able  to  express  him- 
self. He  was  one  of  our  outfit  and  was  known  as  Windy 
Bill.  Nuffsaid! 

"Hear  you're  goin'  up  to  stay  the  night  at  Hooper's/' 
said  he.  "Know  Hooper?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  I,  "are  you  another  of  these  Sunbirds 
with  glad  news?" 
^"Know  about  Hooper's  boomerang?" 

"Boomerang!"  I  replied,  "what's  that?" 

"That's  what  they  call  it.  YOU  know  how  of  course  we 
all  let  each  other's  strays  water  at  our  troughs  in  this  coun- 
try, and  send  'em  back  to  their  own  range  at  round  up." 

"Brother,  you  interest  me,"  said  I,  "and  would  you  mind 
informing  me  further  how  you  tell  the  dear  little  cows 
apart?" 

"Well,  old  Hooper  don't,  that's  all,"  went  on  Windy,  with- 
out paying  me  any  attention.  "He  built  him  a  chute  lead- 
ing to  the  water  corrals,  and  half  way  down  the  chute  he 

5 


THE    KILLER 

built  a  gate  that  would  swing  across  it  and  open  a  hole  into 
a  dry  corral.  And  he  had  a  high  platform  with  a  handle 
that  ran  the  gate.  When  any  cattle  but  those  of  his  own 
brands  came  along,  he  had  a  man  swing  the  gate  and  they 
landed  up  into  the  dry  corral.  By  and  by  he  let  them  out 
on  the  range  again." 

"Without  water?" 

"Sure!  And  of  course  back  they  came  into  the  chute. 
And  so  on.  Till  they  died,  or  we  came  along  and  drove 
them  back  home." 

"Windy,"  said  I,  "you're  stuffing  me  full  of  tacks." 

"Fve  seen  little  calves  lyin'  in  heaps  against  the  fence  like 
drifts  of  tumbleweed,"  said  Windy,  soberly;  and  then  added, 
without  apparent  passion,  "The  old !" 

Looking  at  Windy's  face,  I  knew  these  words  for  truth. 

"He's  a  bad  hombre"  resumed  Windy  Bill  after  a  m<x 
ment.  "He  never  does  no  actual  killing  himself,  but  he's 
got  a  bad  lot  of  oilers*  there,  especially  an  old  one  named 
Andreas  and  another  one  called  Ramon,  and  all  he  has  to  do 
is  to  lift  one  eye  at  a  man  he  don't  like  and  that  man  is  as 
good  as  dead — one  time  or  another." 

This  was  going  it  pretty  strong,  and  I  grinned  at  Windy 
Bill. 

"All  right,"  said  Windy,  "I'm  just  telling  you." 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  you  fellows  down  here?"  I 
challenged.  "How  is  it  he's  lasted  so  long?  Why  hasn't 
someone  shot  him?  Are  you  all  afraid  of  him  or  his  Mexi- 
cans?" 

"No,  it  ain't  that,  exactly.    I  don't  know.    He  drives  by 

*Oiler  =  Greaser  =  Mexican. 

6 


THE    KILLER 

all  alone,  and  he  don't  pack  no  gun  ever,  and  he's  sort  of 
runty — and — I  do'no  why  he  ain't  been  shot,  but  he  ain't. 
And  if  I  was  you,  I'd  stick  home." 

Windy  amused  but  did  not  greatly  persuade  me.  By  this 
time  I  was  fairly  conversant  with  the  cowboy's  sense  of 
humour.  Nothing  would  have  tickled  them  more  than  to 
bluff  me  out  of  a  harmless  excursion  by  means  of  scareful 
tales.  Shortly  Windy  Bill  turned  off  to  examine  a  distant 
bunch  of  cattle;  and  so  I  rode  on  alone. 

It  was  coming  on  toward  evening.  Against  the  eastern 
mountains  were  floating  tinted  mists;  and  the  canons  were 
a  deep  purple.  The  cattle  were  moving  slowly  so  that  here 
and  there  a  nimbus  of  dust  caught  and  reflected  the  late 
sunlight  into  gamboge  yellows  and  mauves.  The  magic 
time  was  near  when  the  fierce,  implacable  day-genius  of  the 
desert  would  fall  asleep  and  the  soft,  gentle,  beautiful 
star-eyed  night-genius  of  the  desert  would  arise  and  move 
softly.  My  pony  racked  along  in  the  desert.  The  mass 
that  represented  Hooper's  ranch  drew  imperceptibly  nearer. 
I  made  out  the  green  of  trees  and  the  white  of  walls  and 
building. 


CHAPTER  H 

Hooper's  ranch  proved  to  be  entirely  enclosed  by  a  wall 
of  adobe  ten  feet  high  and  whitewashed.  To  the  outside 
it  presented  a  blank  face.  Only  corrals  and  an  alfalfa 
patch  were  not  included.  A  wide,  high  gateway,  that  could 
be  closed  by  massive  doors,  let  into  a  stable  yard,  and 
seemed  to  be  the  only  entrance.  The  buildings  within 
were  all  immaculate  also :  evidently  Old  Man  Hooper  loved 
whitewash.  Cottonwood  trees  showed  their  green  heads; 
and  to  the  right  I  saw  the  sloped  shingled  roof  of  a  larger 
building.  Not  a  living  creature  was  in  sight.  I  shook 
myself,  saying  that  the  undoubted  sinister  feeling  of  utter 
silence  and  lifelessness  was  compounded  of  my  expectations 
and  the  time  of  day.  But  that  did  not  satisfy  me.  My 
aroused  mind,  casting  about,  soon  struck  it:  I  was  missing 
the  swarms  of  blackbirds,  linnets,  purple  finches,  and  doves 
that  made  our  own  ranch  trees  vocal.  Here  were  no  birds. 
Laughing  at  this  simple  explanation  of  my  eerie  feeling, 
I  passed  under  the  gate  and  entered  the  courtyard. 

It,  too,  seemed  empty.  A  stable  occupied  all  one  side;  the 
other  three  were  formed  by  bunk  houses  and  necessary  out- 
buildings. Here,  too,  dwelt  absolute  solitude  and  absolute 
silence.  It  was  uncanny,  as  though  one  walked  in  a  vacuum. 
Everything  was  neat  and  shut  up  and  whitewashed  and  ap- 
parently dead.  There  were  no  sounds  or  signs  of  occu- 

8 


THE    KILLER 

pancy.  I  was  as  much  alone  as  though  I  had  been  in  the 
middle  of  an  ocean.  My  mind,  by  now  abnormally  sensi- 
tive and  alert,  leaped  on  this  idea.  For  the  same  reason, 
it  insisted — lack  of  life:  there  were  no  birds  here,  not  even 
flies!  Of  course,  said  I,  gone  to  bed  in  the  cool  of  evening: 
why  should  there  be?  I  laughed  aloud  and  hushed  sud- 
denly ;  and  then  nearly  jumped  out  of  my  skin.  The  thin  blue 
curl  of  smoke  had  caught  my  eye;  and  I  became  aware  of 
the  figure  of  a  man  seated  on  the  ground,  in  the  shadow, 
leaning  against  the  building.  The  curl  of  smoke  was  from 
his  cigarette.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  serape  which  blended 
well  with  the  cool  colour  of  shadow.  My  eyes  were  dazzled 
with  the  whitewash — natural  enough — yet  the  impression 
of  solitude  had  been  so  complete.  It  was  uncanny,  as 
though  he  had  materialized  out  of  the  shadow  itself.  Silly 
idea !  I  ranged  my  eye  along  the  row  of  houses,  and  I  saw 
three  other  figures  I  had  missed  before,  all  broodingly  im- 
mobile, all  merged  in  shadow,  all  watching  me,  all  with  the 
insubstantial  air  of  having  as  I  looked  taken  body  from  thin 
air. 

This  was  too  foolish !  I  dismounted,  dropped  my  horse's 
reins  over  his  head,  and  sauntered  to  the  nearest  figure.  He 
was  lost  in  the  dusk  of  the  building  and  of  his  Mexican  hat. 
I  saw  only  the  gleam  of  eyes. 

"Where  will  I  find  Mr.  Hooper?"  I  asked. 

The  figure  waved  a  long,  slim  hand  toward  a  wicket  gate 
in  one  side  of  the  enclosure.  He  said  no  word,  nor  made  an- 
other motion;  and  the  other  figures  sat  as  though  graved 
from  stone. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  I  pushed  open  the  wicket 

9 


THE    KILLER 

gate,  and  so  found  myself  in  a  smaller  intimate  courtyard 
of  most  surprising  character.  Its  centre  was  green  grass, 
and  about  its  border  grew  tall,  bright  flowers.  A  wide  ve- 
randah ran  about  three  sides.  I  could  see  that  in  the  numer- 
ous windows  hung  white  lace  curtains.  Mind  you,  this  was 
in  Arizona  of  the  'nineties! 

I  knocked  at  the  nearest  door,  and  after  an  interval  it 
opened  and  I  stood  face  to  face  with  Old  Man  Hooper  himself. 

He  proved  to  be  as  small  as  I  had  thought,  not  taller  than 
my  own  shoulder,  with  a  bent  little  figure  dressed  in  wrink- 
led and  baggy  store  clothes  of  a  snuff  brown.  His  bullet 
head  had  been  cropped  so  that  his  hair  stood  up  like  a  short- 
bristled  white  brush.  His  rather  round  face  was  brown 
and  lined.  His  hands,  which  grasped  the  doorposts  un- 
compromisingly to  bar  the  way,  were  lean  and  veined  and 
old.  But  all  that  I  found  in  my  recollections  afterward 
to  be  utterly  unimportant.  His  eyes  were  his  predominant, 
his  formidable,  his  compelling  characteristic.  They  were 
round,  the  pupils  very  small,  the  irises  large  and  of  a  light 
flecked  blue.  From  the  pupils  radiated  fine  lines.  The 
blank,  cold,  inscrutable  stare  of  them  bored  me  through 
to  the  back  of  the  neck.  I  suppose  the  man  winked  oc- 
casionally, but  I  never  got  that  impression.  I've  noticed 
that  owls  have  this  same  intent,  unwinking  stare — and  wild- 
cats. 

"Mr.  Hooper,"  said  I,  "can  you  keep  me  over  night?" 

It  was  a  usual  request  in  the  old  cattle  country.  He  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  me  for  some  moments. 

"Where  are  you  from?"  he  asked  at  length.  His  voice 
was  soft  and  low;  rather  purring. 

10 


THE    KILLER 

I  mentioned  our  headquarters  on  the  Gila:  it  did  not 
seem  worth  while  to  say  anything  about  Box  Springs  only 
a  dozen  miles  away.  He  stared  at  me  for  some  time  more. 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  abruptly;  and  stood  aside. 

This  was  a  disconcerting  surprise.  All  I  had  expected 
was  permission  to  stop,  and  a  direction  as  to  how  to  find 
the  bunk  house.  Then  a  more  or  less  dull  evening,  and  a 
return  the  following  day  to  collect  on  my  "dare."  I  step- 
ped into  the  dimness  of  the  hallway;  and  immediately  after 
into  a  room  beyond. 

Again  I  must  remind  you  that  this  was  the  Arizona  of  the 
'nineties.  All  the  ranch  houses  with  which  I  was  acquainted, 
and  I  knew  about  all  of  them,  were  very  crudely  done. 
They  comprised  generally  a  half  dozen  rooms  with  adobe 
walls  and  rough  board  floors,  with  only  such  furnishings 
as  deal  tables,  benches,  homemade  chairs,  perhaps  a  bat- 
tered old  washstand  or  so,  and  bunks  filled  with  straw.  We 
had  no  such  things  as  tablecloths  and  sheets,  of  course. 
Everything  was  on  a  like  scale  of  simple  utility. 

All  right,  get  that  in  your  mind.  The  interior  into  which 
I  now  stepped,  with  my  clanking  spurs,  my  rattling  chaps, 
the  dust  of  my  sweat-stained  garments,  was  a  low-ceilinged, 
dim  abode  with  faint,  musty  aromas.  Carpets  covered  the 
floors;  an  old-fashioned  hat  rack  flanked  the  door  on  one 
side,  a  tall  clock  on  the  other.  I  saw  in  passing  framed  steel 
engravings.  The  room  beyond  contained  easy  chairs,  a 
sofa  upholstered  with  hair  cloth,  an  upright  piano,  a  marble 
fireplace  with  a  mantel,  in  a  corner  a  triangular  what- 
not filled  with  objects.  It,  too,  was  dim  and  curtained  and 
faintly  aromatic  as  had  been  the  house  of  an  old  maiden 

ii 


THE    KILLER 

aunt  of  my  childhood,  who  used  to  give  me  cookies  on  the 
Sabbath.  I  felt  now  too  large,  and  too  noisy,  and  altogether 
mis-dressed  and  blundering  and  dirty.  The  little  old  man 
moved  without  a  sound,  and  the  grandfather's  clock  outside 
ticked  deliberately  in  a  hollow  silence. 

I  sat  down,  rather  gingerly,  in  the  chair  he  indicated  for 
me. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  offer  you  hospitality  for  the 
night,"  he  said,  as  though  there  had  been  no  interim.  "I 
feel  honoured  at  the  opportunity." 

I  murmured  my  thanks,  and  a  suggestion  that  I  should 
look  after  my  horse. 

"Your  horse,  sir, has  been  attended  to,  and  your  cantinas* 
are  undoubtedly  by  now  in  your  room,  where,  I  am  sure, 
you  are  anxious  to  repair." 

He  gave  no  signal,  nor  uttered  any  command,  but  at  his 
last  words  a  grave,  elderly  Mexican  appeared  noiselessly  at 
my  elbow.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  came  through  an  un- 
noticed door  at  the  back,  but  he  might  as  well  have  material- 
ized from  the  thin  air  for  the  start  that  he  gave  me.  Hooper 
instantly  arose. 

"I  trust,  sir,  you  will  find  all  to  your  liking.  If  anything 
is  lacking,  I  trust  you  will  at  once  indicate  the  fact.  We 
shall  dine  in  a  half  hour 

He  seized  a  small  implement  consisting  of  a  bit  of  wire 
screen  attached  to  the  end  of  a  short  stick,  darted  across  the 
room  with  the  most  extraordinary  agility,  thwacked  a  lone 
house  fly,  and  returned. 

" — and  you  will  undoubtedly  be  ready  for  it,"  he  finished 
*  Saddle  pockets  that  fit  on  the  pommel. 

12 


THE    KILLER 

his  speech,  calmly,  as  though  he  had  not  moved  from  his 
tracks. 

I  murmured  my  acknowledgments.  My  last  impression 
as  I  left  the  room  was  of  the  baleful,  dead,  challenging  stare 
of  the  man's  wildcat  eyes. 

The  Mexican  glided  before  me.  We  emerged  into  the 
court,  walked  along  the  verandah,  and  entered  a  bedroom. 
My  guide  slipped  by  me  and  disappeared  before  I  had  the 
chance  of  a  word  with  him.  He  may  have  been  dumb  for 
all  I  know.  I  sat  down  and  tried  to  take  stock. 


CHAPTER  III 

The  room  was  small,  but  it  was  papered,  it  was  rugged,  its 
floor  was  painted  and  waxed,  its  window — opening  into  the 
court,  by  the  way — was  hung  with  chintz  and  net  curtains, 
its  bed  was  garnished  with  sheets  and  counterpane,  its  chairs 
were  upholstered  and  in  perfect  repair  and  polish.  It  was 
not  Arizona,  emphatically  not,  but  rather  the  sweet  and 
garnished  and  lavendered  respectability  of  a  Connecticut 
village.  My  dirty  old  cantinas  lay  stacked  against  the 
washstand.  At  sight  of  them  I  had  to  grin.  Of  course  I 
travelled  cowboy  fashion.  They  contained  a  toothbrush, 
a  comb,  and  a  change  of  underwear.  The  latter  item  was 
sheer,  rank  pride  of  caste. 

It  was  all  most  incongruous  and  strange.  But  the  strang- 
est part,  of  course,  was  the  fact  that  I  found  myself  where  I 
was  at  that  moment.  Why  was  I  thus  received?  Why 
was  I,  an  ordinary  and  rather  dirty  cowpuncher,  not  sent 
as  usual  to  the  men's  bunk  house?  It  could  not  be  possible 
that  Old  Man  Hooper  extended  this  sort  of  hospitality  to 
every  chance  wayfarer.  Arizona  is  a  democratic  country, 
Lord  knows:  none  more  so!  But  owners  are  not  likely  to 
invite  in  strange  cowboys  unless  they  themselves  mess  with 
their  own  men.  I  gave  it  up,  and  tried  unsuccessfully  to 
shrug  it  off  my  mind,  and  sought  distraction  in  looking  about 
me.  There  was  not  much  to  see.  The  one  door  and  one 

14 


THE    KILLER 

window  opened  into  the  court.  The  other  side  was  blank 
except  that  near  the  ceiling  ran  a  curious,  long,  narrow  open- 
ing closed  by  a  transom-like  sash.  I  had  never  seen  any- 
thing quite  like  it,  but  concluded  that  it  must  be  a  sort  of 
loop  hole  for  musketry  in  the  old  days.  Probably  they  had 
some  kind  of  scaffold  to  stand  on. 

I  pulled  off  my  shirt  and  took  a  good  wash:  shook  the  dust 
out  of  my  clothes  as  well  as  I  could;  removed  my  spurs  and 
chaps;  knotted  my  silk  handkerchief  necktie  fashion;  slicked 
down  my  wet  hair,  and  tried  to  imagine  myself  decently 
turned  out  for  company.  I  took  off  my  gun  belt  also;  but 
after  some  hesitation  thrust  the  revolver  inside  the  waist- 
band of  my  drawers.  Had  no  reason;  simply  the  border 
instinct  to  stick  to  one's  weapon. 

Then  I  sat  down  to  wait.  The  friendly  little  noises  of  my 
own  movements  left  me.  I  give  you  my  word,  never  be- 
fore nor  since  have  I  experienced  such  stillness.  In  vain  I 
told  myself  that  with  adobe  walls  two  feet  thick,  a  windless 
evening,  and  an  hour  after  sunset,  stillness  was  to  be  ex- 
pected. That  did  not  satisfy.  Silence  is  made  up  of  a 
thousand  little  noises  so  accustomed  that  they  pass  over  the 
consciousness.  Somehow  these  little  noises  seemed  to  lack. 
I  sat  in  an  aural  vacuum.  This  analysis  has  come  to  me 
since.  At  that  time  I  only  knew  that  most  uneasily  I  missed 
something,  and  that  my  ears  ached  from  vain  listening. 

At  the  end  of  the  half  hour  I  returned  to  the  parlour. 
Old  Man  Hooper  was  there  waiting.  A  hanging  lamp  had 
been  lighted.  Out  of  the  shadows  cast  from  it  a  slender 
figure  rose  and  came  forward. 

"My  daughter,  Mr. "  he  paused. 

15 


THE    KILLER 

"Sanborn,"  I  supplied. 

"My  dear,  Mr.  Sanborn  has  most  kindly  dropped  in  to 
relieve  the  tedium  of  our  evening  with  his  company — his 
distinguished  company. "  He  pronounced  the  words 
suavely,  without  a  trace  of  sarcastic  emphasis,  yet  somehow  I 
felt  my  face  flush.  And  all  the  time  he  was  staring  at  me 
blankly  with  his  wide,  unblinking,  wildcat  eyes. 

The  girl  was  very  pale,  with  black  hair  and  wide  eyes 
under  a  fair,  wide  brow.  She  was  simply  dressed  in  some  sort 
of  white  stuff.  I  thought  she  drooped  a  little.  She  did  not 
look  at  me,  nor  speak  to  me;  only  bowed  slightly. 

We  went  at  once  into  a  dining  room  at  the  end  of  the  little 
dark  hall.  It  was  lighted  by  a  suspended  lamp  that  threw 
the  illumination  straight  down  on  a  table  perfect  in  its 
appointments  of  napery,  silver,  and  glass.  I  felt  very  awk- 
ward and  dusty  in  my  cowboy  rig;  and  rather  too  large. 
The  same  Mexican  served  us,  deftly.  We  had  delightful 
food,  well  cooked.  I  do  not  remember  what  it  was.  My 
attention  was  divided  between  the  old  man  and  his  daugh- 
ter. He  talked,  urbanely,  of  a  wide  range  of  topics,  dis- 
playing a  cosmopolitan  taste,  employing  a  choice  of  words 
and  phrases  that  was  astonishing.  The  girl,  who  turned 
out  to  be  very  pretty  in  a  dark,  pale,  sad  way,  never  raised 
her  eyes  from  her  plate. 

It  was  the  cool  of  the  evening,  and  a  light  breeze  from  the 
open  window  swung  the  curtains.  From  the  blackness  out- 
side a  single  frog  began  to  chirp.  My  host's  flow  of  words 
eddied,  ceased.  He  raised  his  head  uneasily;  then,  without 
apology,  slipped  from  his  chair  and  glided  from  the  room. 
The  Mexican  remained,  standing  bolt  upright  in  the  dimness. 

16 


THE    KILLER 

For  the  first  time  the  girl  spoke.  Her  voice  was  low  and 
sweet,  but  either  I  or  my  aroused  imagination  detected  a 
strained  under  quality. 

" Ramon,"  she  said  in  Spanish,  "I  am  chilly.  Close  the 
window." 

The  servant  turned  his  back  to  obey.  With  a  movement 
rapid  as  a  snake's  dart  the  girl's  hand  came  from  beneath  the 
table,  reached  across,  and  thrust  into  mine  a  small,  folded 
paper.  The  next  instant  she  was  back  in  her  place,  staring 
down  as  before  in  apparent  apathy.  So  amazed  was  I 
that  I  recovered  barely  soon  enough  to  conceal  the  paper 
before  Ramon  turned  back  from  his  errand. 

The  next  five  minutes  were  to  me  hours  of  strained  and 
bewildered  waiting.  I  addressed  one  or  two  remarks  to  my 
companion,  but  received  always  monosyllabic  answers. 
Twice  I  caught  the  flash  of  lanterns  beyond  the  darkened 
window;  and  a  subdued,  confused  murmur  as  though  several 
people  were  walking  about  stealthily.  Except  for  this  the 
night  had  again  fallen  deathly  still.  Even  the  cheerful 
frog  had  hushed. 

At  the  end  of  a  period  my  host  returned,  and  without 
apology  or  explanation  resumed  his  seat  and  took  up  his 
remarks  where  he  had  left  them. 

The  girl  disappeared  somewhere  between  the  table  and 
the  sitting  room.  Old  Man  Hooper  offered  me  a  cigar,  and 
sat  down  deliberately  to  entertain  me.  I  had  an  uncom- 
fortable feeling  that  he  was  also  amusing  himself,  as  though 
I  were  being  played  with  and  covertly  sneered  at.  Hoop- 
er's politeness  and  suavity  concealed,  and  well  concealed, 
a  bitter  irony.  His  manner  was  detached  and  a  little  pre- 
17 


THE    KILLER 

cise.  Every  few  moments  he  burst  into  a  flurry  of  activity 
with  the  fly  whacker,  darting  here  and  there  as  his  eyes  fell 
upon  one  of  the  insects;  but  returning  always  calmly  to  his 
discourse  with  an  air  of  never  having  moved  from  his  chair. 
He  talked  to  me  of  Praxiteles,  among  other  things.  What 
should  an  Arizona  cowboy  know  of  Praxiteles?  and  why 
should  any  one  talk  to  him  of  that  worthy  Greek  save  as  a 
subtle  and  hidden  expression  of  contempt?  That  was  my 
feeling.  My  senses  and  mental  apperceptions  were  by  now 
a  little  on  the  raw. 

That,  possibly,  is  why  I  noticed  the  very  first  chirp  of 
another  frog  outside.  It  continued,  and  I  found  myself 
watching  my  host  covertly.  Sure  enough,  after  a  few 
repetitions  I  saw  subtle  signs  of  uneasiness,  of  divided 
attention;  and  soon,  again  without  apology  or  explana- 
tion, he  glided  from  the  room.  And  at  the  same  instant  the 
old  Mexican  servitor  came  and  pretended  to  fuss  with  the 
lamps. 

My  curiosity  was  now  thoroughly  aroused,  but  I  could 
guess  no  means  of  satisfying  it.  Like  the  bedroom,  this 
parlour  gave  out  only  on  the  interior  court.  The  flash  of 
lanterns  against  the  ceiling  above  reached  me.  All  I  could 
do  was  to  wander  about  looking  at  the  objects  in  the  cabinet 
and  the  pictures  on  the  walls.  There  was,  I  remember,  a 
set  of  carved  ivory  chessmen  and  an  engraving  of  the  legal 
trial  of  some  English  worthy  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
But  my  hearing  was  alert,  and  I  thought  to  hear  footsteps 
outside.  At  any  rate,  the  chirp  of  the  frog  came  to  an  abrupt 
end. 

Shortly  my  host  returned  and  took  up  his  monologue. 

18 


THE    KILLER 

It  amounted  to  that.  He  seemed  to  delight  in  choosing 
unusual  subjects  and  then  backing  me  into  a  corner  with 
an  array  of  well-considered  phrases  that  allowed  me  no 
opening  for  reply  nor  even  comment.  In  one  of  my  des- 
perate attempts  to  gain  even  a  momentary  initiative  I  asked 
him,  apropos  of  the  piano,  whether  his  daughter  played. 

"Do  you  like  music?"  he  added,  and  without  waiting  for 
a  reply  seated  himself  at  the  instrument. 

He  played  to  me  for  half  an  hour.  I  do  not  know  much 
about  music;  but  I  know  he  played  well  and  that  he  played 
good  things.  Also  that,  for  the  first  time,  he  came  out  of 
himself,  abandoned  himself  to  feeling.  His  close-cropped 
head  swayed  from  side  to  side;  his  staring,  wildcat  eyes  half 
closed 

He  slammed  shut  the  piano  and  arose,  more  drily  precise 
than  ever. 

"I  imagine  all  that  is  rather  beyond  your  apperceptions," 
he  remarked,  "and  that  you  are  ready  for  your  bed.  Here 
is  a  short  document  I  would  have  you  take  to  your  room  for 
perusal.  Good-night." 

He  tendered  me  a  small,  folded  paper  which  I  thrust  into 
the  breast  pocket  of  my  shirt  along  with  the  note  handed  me 
earlier  in  the  evening  by  the  girl.  Thus  dismissed  I  was 
only  too  delighted  to  repair  to  my  bedroom. 

There  I  first  carefully  drew  together  the  curtains;  then 
examined  the  first  of  the  papers  I  drew  from  my  pocket. 
It  proved  to  be  the  one  from  the  girl,  and  read  as  follows: 

I  am  here  against  my  will.  I  am  not  this  man's  daughter. 
For  God's  sake  if  you  can  help  me,  do  so.  But  be  careful  for 


THE    KILLER 

he  is  a  dangerous  man.  My  room  is  the  last  one  on  the  left 
wing  of  the  court.  I  am  constantly  guarded.  I  do  not  know 
what  you  can  do.  The  case  is  hopeless.  I  cannot  write  more. 
I  am  watched. 

I  unfolded  the  paper  Hooper  himself  had  given  me.  It 
was  similar  in  appearance  to  the  other,  and  read: 

I  am  held  a  prisoner.  This  man  Hooper  is  not  my  father 
but  he  is  vindictive  and  cruel  and  dangerous.  Beware  for 
yourself.  I  live  in  the  last  room  in  the  left  whig.  I  am 
watched,  so  cannot  write  more. 

The  handwriting  of  the  two  documents  was  the  same. 
I  stared  at  one  paper  and  then  at  the  other,  and  for  a  half 
hour  I  thought  all  the  thoughts  appropriate  to  the  occa- 
sion. They  led  me  nowhere,  and  would  not  interest  you. 


20 


CHAPTER  IV 

After  a  time  I  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  I  placed  my 
gun  under  my  pillow,  locked  and  bolted  the  door,  and  ar- 
ranged a  string  cunningly  across  the  open  window  so  that 
an  intruder — unless  he  had  extraordinary  luck — could  not 
have  failed  to  kick  up  a  devil  of  a  clatter.  I  was  young, 
bold,  without  nerves;  so  that  I  think  I  can  truthfully  say  I 
was  not  in  the  least  frightened.  But  I  cannot  deny  I  was 
nervous — or  rather  the  whole  situation  was  on  my  nerves. 
I  lay  on  my  back  staring  straight  at  the  ceiling.  I  caught 
myself  gripping  the  sheets  and  listening.  Only  there  was 
nothing  to  listen  to.  The  night  was  absolutely  still.  There 
were  no  frogs,  no  owls,  no  crickets  even.  The  firm  old  adobe 
walls  gave  off  no  creak  nor  snap  of  timbers.  The  world 
was  mufHed — I  almost  said  smothered.  The  psychological 
effect  was  that  of  blank  darkness,  the  black  darkness  of  far 
underground,  although  the  moon  was  sailing  the  heavens. 

How  long  that  lasted  I  could  not  tell  you.  But  at  last 
the  silence  was  broken  by  the  cheerful  chirp  of  a  frog. 
Never  was  sound  more  grateful  to  the  ear!  I  lay  drinking 
it  in  as  thirstily  as  water  after  a  day  on  the  desert.  It  seemed 
that  the  world  breathed  again,  was  coming  alive  after  syn- 
cope. And  then  beneath  that  loud  and  cheerful  singing  I 
became  aware  of  duller  half -heard  movements;  and  a  mo- 
ment or  so  later  yellow  lights  began  to  flicker  through  the 

21 


THE    KILLER 

transom  high  at  the  blank  wall  of  the  room,  and  to  reflect 
in  wavering  patches  on  the  ceiling.  Evidently  somebody 
was  afoot  outside  with  a  lantern. 

I  crept  from  the  bed,  moved  the  table  beneath  the  tran- 
som, and  climbed  atop.  The  opening  was  still  a  foot  or  so 
above  my  head.  Being  young,  strong,  and  active,  I  drew 
myself  up  by  the  strength  of  my  arms  so  I  could  look — 
until  my  muscles  gave  out! 

I  saw  four  men  with  lanterns  moving  here  and  there 
among  some  willows  that  bordered  what  seemed  to  be  an 
irrigating  ditch  with  water.  They  were  armed  with  long 
clubs.  Old  Man  Hooper,  in  an  overcoat,  stood  in  a  com- 
manding position.  They  seemed  to  be  searching.  Sud- 
denly from  a  clump  of  bushes  one  of  the  men  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  triumph.  I  saw  his  long  club  rise  and  fall. 
At  that  instant  my  tired  fingers  slipped  from  the  ledge  and 
I  had  to  let  myself  drop  to  the  table.  When  a  moment 
later  I  regained  my  vantage  point,  I  found  that  the  whole 
crew  had  disappeared. 

Nothing  more  happened  that  night.  At  times  I  dozed 
in  a  broken  sort  of  fashion,  but  never  actually  fell  into 
sound  sleep.  The  nearest  I  came  to  slumber  was  just  at 
dawn.  I  really  lost  all  consciousness  of  my  surroundings 
and  circumstances,  and  was  only  slowly  brought  to  myself 
by  the  sweet  singing  of  innumerable  birds  in  the  willows 
outside  the  blank  wall.  I  lay  in  a  half  stupor  enjoying 
them.  Abruptly  their  music  ceased.  I  heard  the  soft,  flat 
spat  of  a  miniature  rifle.  The  sound  was  repeated.  I 
climbed  back  on  my  table  and  drew  myself  again  to  a  posi- 
tion of  observation. 

22 


THE    KILLER 

Old  Man  Hooper,  armed  with  a  .22  calibre  rifle,  was  prowl- 
ing along  the  willows  in  which  fluttered  a  small  band  of 
migratory  birds.  He  was  just  drawing  bead  on  a  robin. 
At  the  report  the  bird  fell.  The  old  man  darted  forward 
with  the  impetuosity  of  a  boy,  although  the  bird  was  dead. 
An  impulse  of  contempt  curled  my  lips.  The  old  man  was 
childish!  Why  should  he  find  pleasure  in  hunting  such 
harmless  creatures?  and  why  should  he  take  on  triumph 
over  retrieving  such  petty  game?  But  when  he  reached 
the  fallen  bird  he  did  not  pick  it  up  for  a  possible  pot-pie  as 
I  thought  he  would  do.  He  ground  it  into  the  soft  earth 
with  the  heel  c*  his  boot,  stamping  on  the  poor  thing  again 
and  again.  And  never  have  I  seen  on  human  countenance 
such  an  expression  of  satisfied  malignity! 

I  went  to  my  door  and  looked  out.  You  may  be  sure 
that  the  message  I  had  received  from  the  unfortunate  young 
lady  had  not  been  forgotten;  but  Old  Man  Hooper's  cynical 
delivery  of  the  second  paper  had  rendered  me  too  cautious 
to  undertake  anything  without  proper  reconnaissance. 
The  left  wing  about  the  courtyard  seemed  to  contain  two 
apartments — at  least  there  were  two  doors,  each  with  its 
accompanying  window.  The  window  farthest  out  was 
heavily  barred.  My  thrill  at  this  discovery  was,  however, 
slightly  dashed  by  the  further  observation  that  also- all  the 
other  windows  into  the  courtyard  were  barred.  Still, 
that  was  peculiar  in  itself,  and  not  attributable — as  were 
the  walls  and  remarkable  transoms — to  former  necessities 
of  defence.  My  first  thought  was  to  stroll  idly  around  the 
courtyard,  thus  obtaining  a  closer  inspection.  But  the 
moment  I  stepped  into  the  open  a  Mexican  sauntered  into 

23 


THE    KILLER 

view  and  began  to  water  the  flowers.  I  can  say  no  more 
than  that  in  his  hands  that  watering  pot  looked  fairly 
silly.  So  I  turned  to  the  right  and  passed  through  the 
wicket  gate  and  into  the  stable  yard.  It  was  natural 
enough  that  I  should  go  to  look  after  my  own  horse. 

The  stable  yard  was  for  the  moment  empty;  but  as  I 
walked  across  it  one  of  its  doors  opened  and  a  very  little, 
wizened  old  man  emerged  leading  a  horse.  He  tied  the 
animal  to  a  ring  in  the  wall  and  proceeded  at  once  to  curry- 
ing. 

I  had  been  in  Arizona  for  ten  years.  During  that  time 
I  had  seen  a  great  many  very  fine  native  horses,  for  the 
stock  of  that  country  is  directly  descended  from  the  barbs 
of  the  conquistador es.  But,  though  often  well  formed  and 
as  tough  and  useful  as  horseflesh  is  made,  they  were  small. 
And  no  man  thought  of  refinements  in  caring  for  any  one 
of  his  numerous  mounts.  They  went  shaggy  or  smooth 
according  to  the  season;  and  not  one  of  them  could  have 
called  a  curry  comb  or  brush  out  of  its  name. 

The  beast  from  which  the  wizened  old  man  stripped  a 
bonafide  horse  blanket  was  none  of  these.  He  stood  a  good 
sixteen  hands;  his  head  was  small  and  clean  cut  with  large, 
intelligent  eyes  and  little,  well-set  ears;  his  long,  muscular 
shoulders  sloped  forward  as  shoulders  should;  his  barrel 
was  long  and  deep  and  well  ribbed  up;  his  back  was  flat 
and  straight;  his  legs  were  clean  and — what  was  rarely 
seen  in  the  cow  country — well  proportioned — the  cannon 
bone  shorter  than  the  leg  bone,  the  ankle  sloping  and  long 
and  elastic — in  short,  a  magnificent  creature  whose  points 
of  excellence  appeared  one  by  one  under  close  scrutiny. 

24 


THE    KILLER 

And  the  high  lights  of  his  glossy  coat  flashed  in  the  sun  like 
water. 

I  walked  from  one  side  to  the  other  of  him  marvelling. 
Not  a  defect,  not  even  a  blemish  could  I  discover.  The 
animal  was  fairly  a  perfect  specimen  of  horseflesh.  And  I 
could  not  help  speculating  as  to  its  use.  Old  Man  Hooper 
had  certainly  never  appeared  with  it  in  public;  the  fame  of 
such  a  beast  would  have  spread  the  breadth  of  the  country. 

During  my  inspection  the  wizened  little  man  continued 
his  work  without  even  a  glance  in  my  direction.  He  had 
on  riding  breeches  and  leather  gaiters,  a  plaid  waistcoat 
and  a  peaked  cap;  which,  when  you  think  of  it,  was  to 
Arizona  about  as  incongruous  as  the  horse.  I  made 
several  conventional  remarks  of  admiration,  to  which  he 
paid  not  the  slightest  attention.  But  I  know  a  bait. 

"I  suppose  you  claim  him  as  a  Morgan,"  said  I. 

"Claim,  is  it!"  grunted  the  little  man,  contemptuously. 

"Well,  the  Morgan  is  not  a  real  breed,  anyway,"  I  per- 
sisted. "A  sixty-fourth  blood  will  get  one  registered. 
What  does  that  amount  to  ?  " 

The  little  man  grunted  again. 

"Besides,  though  your  animal  is  a  good  one,  he  is  too 
short  and  straight  in  the  pasterns,"  said  I,  uttering  sheer, 
rank,  wild  heresy. 

After  that  we  talked;  at  first  heatedly,  then  argumenta- 
tively,  then  with  entire,  enthusiastic  agreement.  I  saw  to 
that.  Allowing  yourself  to  be  converted  from  an  absurd 
opinion  is  always  a  sure  way  to  favour.  We  ended  with  an- 
tiphonies  of  praise  for  this  descendant  of  Justin  Morgan. 

"You're  the  only  man  in  all  this  God-forsaken  country 

25 


THE    KILLER 

that  has  the  sense  of  a  Shanghai  rooster!"  cried  the  little 
man  in  a  glow.  "They  ride  horses  and  they  know  naught 
of  them;  and  they  laugh  at  a  horseman!  Your  hand,  sir!" 
He  shook  it.  "And  is  that  your  horse  in  number  four?  I 
wondered!  He's  the  first  animal  I've  seen  here  properly 
shod.  They  use  the  rasp,  sir,  on  the  outside  the  hoof,  and 
on  the  clinches,  sir;  and  they  burn  a  seat  for  the  shoe;  and 
they  pare  out  the  sole  and  trim  the  frog — bah!  You  shoe 
your  own  horse,  I  take  it.  That's  right  and  proper!  Your 
hand  again,  sir.  Your  horse  has  been  fed  this  hour  agone." 

'Til  water  him,  then,"  said  I. 

But  when  I  led  him  forth  I  could  find  no  trough  or  other 
facilities  until  the  little  man  led  me  to  a  corner  of  the  corral 
and  showed  me  a  contraption  with  a  close-fitting  lid  to  be 
lifted. 

"  It's  along  of  the  flies,"  he  explained  to  me.  "  They  must 
drink,  and  we  starve  them  for  water  here,  and  they  go 
greedy  for  their  poison  yonder."  He  indicated  flat  dishes 
full  of  liquid  set  on  shelves  here  and  about.  "  We  keep  them 
pretty  clear." 

I  walked  over,  curiously,  to  examine.  About  and  in  the 
dishes  were  literally  quarts  of  dead  insects,  not  only  flies, 
but  bees,  hornets,  and  other  sorts  as  well.  I  now  understood 
the  deadly  silence  that  had  so  impressed  me  the  evening 
before.  This  was  certainly  most  ingenious;  and  I  said  so. 

But  at  my  first  remark  the  old  man  became  obstinately 
silent,  and  fell  again  to  grooming  the  Morgan  horse.  Then 
I  became  aware  that  he  was  addressing  me  in  low  tones  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Go  on;  look  at  the  horse;  say  something,"  he  muttered, 

26 


THE    KILLER 

busily  polishing  down  the  animal's  hind  legs.  "You're  a 
man  who  saveys  a  horse — the  only  man  I've  seen  here  who 
does.  Get  out!  Don't  ask  why.  You're  safe  now.  You're 
not  safe  here  another  day.  Water  your  horse;  eat  your 
breakfast;  then  get  out!" 

And  not  another  word  did  I  extract.  I  watered  my  horse 
at  the  covered  trough,  and  rather  thoughtfully  returned 
to  the  courtyard. 

I  found  there  Old  Man  Hooper  waiting.  He  looked  as 
bland  and  innocent  and  harmless  as  the  sunlight  on  his  own 
flagstones — until  he  gazed  up  at  me,  and  then  I  was  as  usual 
disconcerted  by  the  blank,  veiled,  unwinking  stare  of  his  eyes. 

"Remarkably  fine  Morgan  stallion  you  have,  sir,"  I 
greeted  him.  "  I  didn't  know  such  a  creature  existed  in  this 
part  of  the  world." 

But  the  little  man  displayed  no  gratification. 

"He's  well  enough.  I  have  him  more  to  keep  Tim  happy 
than  anything  else.  We'll  go  in  to  breakfast." 

I  cast  a  cautious  eye  at  the  barred  window  in  the  left 
wing.  The  curtains  were  still  down.  At  the  table  I  ven- 
tured to  ask  after  Miss  Hooper.  The  old  man  stared  at  me 
up  to  the  point  of  embarrassment,  then  replied  drily  that 
she  always  breakfasted  in  her  room.  The  rest  of  our  con- 
versation was  on  general  topics.  I  am  bound  to  say  it  was 
unexpectedly  easy.  The  old  man  was  a  good  talker,  and 
possessed  social  ease  and  a  certain  charm,  which  he  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  exert.  Among  other  things,  I  remember,  he 
told  me  of  the  Indian  councils  he  used  to  hold  in  the  old 
days. 

"They  were  held  on  the  willow  flat,  outside  the  east 

27 


THE    KILLER 

wall,"  he  said.  "I  never  allowed  any  of  them  inside  the 
walls."  The  suavity  of  his  manner  broke  fiercely  and  sud- 
denly. "  Every  thing  inside  the  walls  is  mine! "  he  declared 
with  heat.  "Mine!  mine!  mine!  Understand?  I  will 
not  tolerate  in  here  anything  that  is  not  mine;  that  does 
not  obey  my  will ;  that  does  not  come  when  I  say  come ;  go 
when  I  say  go;  and  fall  silent  when  I  say  be  still! " 

A  wild  and  fantastic  idea  suddenly  illuminated  my  under- 
standing. 

"Even  the  crickets,  the  flies,  the  frogs,  the  birds,"  I  said, 
audaciously. 

He  fixed  his  wildcat  eyes  upon  me  without  answering. 

"And,"  I  went  on,  deliberately,  "who  could  deny  your 
perfect  right  to  do  what  you  will  with  your  own?  And  if 
they  did  deny  that  right  what  more  natural  than  that  they 
should  be  made  to  perish — or  take  their  breakfasts  in  their 
rooms?  " 

I  was  never  more  aware  of  the  absolute  stillness  of  the 
house  than  when  I  uttered  these  foolish  words.  My  hand 
was  on  the  gun  in  my  trouser-band;  but  even  as  I  spoke  a 
sickening  realization  came  over  me  that  if  the  old  man  op- 
posite so  willed,  I  would  have  no  slightest  chance  to  use  it. 
The  air  behind  me  seemed  full  of  menace,  and  the  hair 
crawled  on  the  back  of  my  neck.  Hooper  stared  at  me 
without  sign  for  ten  seconds;  his  right  hand  hovered  above 
the  polished  table.  Then  he  let  it  fall  without  giving  what 
I  am  convinced  would  have  been  a  signal. 

"Will  you  have  more  coffee — my  guest?"  he  inquired. 
And  he  stressed  subtly  the  last  word  in  a  manner  that  some- 
how made  me  just  a  trifle  ashamed. 

28 


THE     KILLER 

At  the  close  of  the  meal  the  Mexican  familiar  glided  into 
the  room.  Hooper  seemed  to  understand  the  man's  pres- 
ence, for  he  arose  at  once. 

"Your  horse  is  saddled  and  ready/'  he  told  me,  briskly. 
"You  will  be  wishing  to  start  before  the  heat  of  the  day. 
Your  cantinas  are  ready  on  the  saddle." 

He  clapped  on  his  hat  and  we  walked  together  to  the 
corral.  There  awaited  us  not  only  my  own  horse,  but  an- 
other. The  equipment  of  the  latter  was  magnificently  remi- 
niscent of  the  old  California  days — gaily-coloured  braided 
hair  bridle  and  reins;  silver  conchas;  stock  saddle  of  carved 
leather  with  silver  horn  and  can  tie;  silvered  bit  bars;  gay 
Navajo  blanket  as  corona;  silver  corners  to  skirts,  silver 
conchas  on  the  long  tapaderos.  Old  Man  Hooper,  strangely 
incongruous  in  his  wrinkled  "store  clothes,"  swung  aboard. 

"I  will  ride  with  you  for  a  distance,"  he  said. 

We  jogged  forth  side  by  side  at  the  slow  Spanish  trot. 
Hooper  called  my  attention  to  the  buildings  of  Fort  Shafter 
glimmering  part  way  up  the  slopes  of  the  distant  mountains, 
and  talked  entertainingly  of  the  Indian  days,  and  how  the 
young  officers  used  to  ride  down  to  his  ranch  for  music. 

After  a  half  hour  thus  we  came  to  the  long  string  of  wire 
and  the  huge,  awkward  gate  that  marked  the  limit  of 
Hooper's  "pasture."  Of  course  the  open  range  was  his  real 
pasture;  but  every  ranch  enclosed  a  thousand  acres  or  so 
somewhere  near  the  home  station  to  be  used  for  horses  in 
active  service.  Before  I  could  anticipate  him,  he  had  sidled 
his  horse  skillfully  alongside  the  gate  and  was  holding  it 
open  for  me  to  pass.  I  rode  through  the  opening  mur- 
muring thanks  and  an  apology.  The  old  man  followed  me 

29 


THE    KILLER 

through,  and  halted  me  by  placing  his  horse  square  across 
the  path  of  mine. 

"You  are  now,  sir,  outside  my  land  and  therefore  no 
longer  my  guest,"  he  said,  and  the  snap  in  his  voice  was  like 
the  crackling  of  electricity.  "  Don't  let  me  ever  see  you 
here  again.  You  are  keen  and  intelligent.  You  spoke  the 
truth  a  short  time  since.  You  were  right.  I  tolerate  noth- 
ing in  my  place  that  is  not  my  own — no  man,  no  animal,  no 
bird,  no  insect  nor  reptile  even — that  will  not  obey  my 
lightest  order.  And  these  creatures,  great  or  small,  who 
will  not — or  even  cannot — obey  my  orders  must  go — or  die. 
Understand  me  clearly? 

"You  have  come  here,  actuated,  I  believe,  by  idle  curios- 
ity, but  without  knowledge.  You  made  yourself — ignor- 
antly — my  guest;  and  a  guest  is  sacred.  But  now  you  know 
my  customs  and  ideas.  I  am  telling  you.  Never  again 
can  you  come  here  in  ignorance;  therefore  never  again  can 
you  come  here  as  a  guest;  and  never  again  will  you  pass 
freely." 

He  delivered  this  drily,  precisely,  with  frost  in  his  tones, 
staring  balefully  into  my  eyes.  So  taken  aback  was  I  by 
this  unleashed  hostility  that  for  a  moment  I  had  nothing 
to  say. 

"Now,  if  you  please,  I  will  take  both  notes  from  that  poor 
idiot:  the  one  I  handed  you  and  the  one  she  handed  you." 

I  realized  suddenly  that  the  two  lay  together  in  the  breast 
pocket  of  my  shirt;  that  though  alike  in  tenor,  they  differed 
in  phrasing;  and  that  I  had  no  means  of  telling  one  from 
the  other. 

"The  paper  you  gave  me  I  read  and  threw  away,"    I 

30 


THE    KILLER 

stated,  boldly.  "  It  meant  nothing  to  me.  As  to  any  other, 
I  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking  about." 

"You  are  lying/'  he  said,  calmly,  as  merely  stating  a  fact. 
"It  does  not  matter.  It  is  my  fancy  to  collect  them.  I 
should  have  liked  to  add  yours.  Now  get  out  of  this,  and 
don't  let  me  see  your  face  again! " 

"Mr.  Hooper,"  said  I,  "I  thank  you  for  your  hospitality, 
which  has  been  complete  and  generous.  You  have  pointed 
out  the  fact  that  I  am  no  longer  your  guest.  I  can,  therefore, 
with  propriety,  tell  you  that  your  ideas  and  prejudices  are 
noted  with  interest;  your  wishes  are  placed  on  file  for  future 
reference;  I  don't  give  a  damn  for  your  orders;  and  you  can 
go  to  hell!" 

"Fine  flow  of  language.  Educated  cowpuncher,"  said 
the  old  man,  drily.  "You  are  warned.  Keep  off.  Don't 
meddle  with  what  does  not  concern  you.  And  if  the  rumour 
gets  back  to  me  that  you've  been  speculating  or  talking  or 
criticizing " 

"Well?  "I  challenged. 

"I'll  have  you  killed,"  he  said,  simply;  so  simply  that  I 
knew  he  meant  it. 

"You  are  foolish  to  make  threats,"  I  rejoined.  "Two 
can  play  at  that  game.  You  drive  much  alone." 

"I  do  not  work  alone,"  he  hinted,  darkly.  "The  day 
my  body  is  found  dead  of  violence,  that  day  marks  the  doom 
of  a  long  list  of  men  whom  I  consider  inimical  to  me — like, 
perhaps,  yourself."  He  stared  me  down  with  his  un- 
winking gaze. 


OIAPTER  V 

I  returned  to  Box  Springs  at  a  slow  jog  trot,  thinking 
things  over.  Old  Man  Hooper's  warning  sobered,  but 
did  not  act  as  a  deterrent  of  my  intention  to  continue  with 
the  adventure.  But  how?  I  could  hardly  storm  the  fort 
single  handed  and  carry  off  the  damsel  in  distress.  On  the 
evidence  I  possessed  I  could  not  even  get  together  a  storm- 
ing party.  The  cowboy  is  chivalrous  enough,  but  human. 
He  would  not  uprise  spontaneously  to  the  point  of  war  on 
the  mere  statement  of  incarcerated  beauty — especially  as 
ill-treatment  was  not  apparent.  I  would  hardly  last  long 
enough  to  carry  out  the  necessary  proselyting  campaign. 
It  never  occurred  to  me  to  doubt  that  Hooper  would 
fulfill  his  threat  of  having  me  killed,  or  his  ability  to  do 
so. 

So  when  the  men  drifted  in  two  by  two  at  dusk,  I  said 
nothing  of  my  real  adventures,  and  answered  their  chaff 
in  kind. 

"He  played  the  piano  for  me,"  I  told  them  the  literal 
truth,  "and  had  me  in  to  the  parlour  and  dining  room.  He 
gave  me  a  room  to  myself  with  a  bed  and  sheets;  and  he 
rode  out  to  his  pasture  gate  with  me  to  say  good-bye,"  and 
thereby  I  was  branded  a  delicious  liar. 

"They  took  me  into  the  bunk  house  and  fed  me,  all 
right,"  said  Windy  Bill,  "and  fed  my  horse.  And  next 

32 


THE    KILLER 

morning  that  old  Mexican  Joe  of  his  just  nat'rally  up  and 
kicked  me  off  the  premises." 

"Wonder  you  didn't  shoot  him,"  I  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  he  didn't  use  his  foot.  But  he  sort  of  let  me  know 
that  the  place  was  unhealthy  to  visit  more'n  once.  And 
somehow  I  seen  he  meant  it;  and  I  ain't  never  had  no  call 
to  go  back." 

I  mulled  over  the  situation  all  day,  and  then  could  stand 
it  no  longer.  On  the  dark  of  the  evening  I  rode  to  within  a 
couple  of  miles  of  Hooper's  ranch,  tied  my  horse,  and 
scouted  carefully  forward  afoot.  For  one  thing  I  wanted 
to  find  out  whether  the  system  of  high  transoms  extended 
to  all  the  rooms,  including  that  in  the  left  wing:  for  another 
I  wanted  to  determine  the  "lay  of  the  land"  on  that  blank 
side  of  the  hou-se.  I  found  my  surmise  correct  as  to  the 
transoms.  As  to  the  blank  side  of  the  house,  that  looked 
down  on  a  wide,  green,  moist  patch  and  the  irrigating  ditch 
with  its  stunted  willows.  Then  painstakingly  I  went  over 
every  inch  of  the  terrain  about  the  ranch;  and  might  just 
as  well  have  investigated  the  external  economy  of  a  mud 
turtle.  Realizing  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  in  this 
manner,  I  withdrew  to  my  strategic  base  where  I  rolled 
down  and  slept  until  daylight.  Then  I  saddled  and  re- 
turned toward  the  ranch. 

I  had  not  ridden  two  miles,  however,  before  in  the  boul- 
der-strewn wash  of  Arroyo  Seco  I  met  Jim  Starr,  one  of  our 
men. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  to  me.  "Jed  sent  me  up  to  look 
at  the  Elder  Springs,  but  my  hoss  has  done  cast  a  shoe. 
Cain' t  you  ride  up  there?  " 

33 


THE    KILLER 

"I  cannot,"  said  I,  promptly.  "I've  been  out  all  night 
and  had  no  breakfast.  But  you  can  have  my  horse." 

So  we  traded  horses  and  separated,  each  our  own  way. 
They  sent  me  out  by  Coyote  Wells  with  two  other  men,  and 
we  did  not  get  back  until  the  following  evening. 

The  ranch  was  buzzing  with  excitement.  Jim  Starr  had 
not  returned,  although  the  ride  to  Elder  Springs  was  only 
a  two-hour  affair.  After  a  night  had  elapsed,  and  still  he 
did  not  return,  two  men  had  been  sent.  They  found  him 
half  way  to  Elder  Springs  with  a  bullet  hole  in  his  back. 
The  bullet  was  that  of  a  rifle.  Being  plainsmen  they  had 
done  good  detective  work  of  its  kind,  and  had  determined — 
by  the  direction  of  the  bullet's  flight  as  evidenced  by  the 
wound — that  it  had  been  fired  from  a  point  above.  The 
only  point  above  was  the  low  "  rim  "  that  ran  for  miles  down 
the  Soda  Springs  Valley.  It  was  of  black  lava  and  showed 
no  tracks.  The  men,  with  a  true  sense  of  values,  had  con- 
tented themselves  with  covering  Jim  Starr  with  a  blanket, 
and  then  had  ridden  the  rim  for  some  miles  in  both  direc- 
tions looking  for  a  trail.  None  could  be  discovered.  By 
this  they  deduced  that  the  murder  was  not  the  result  of 
chance  encounter,  but  had  been  so  carefully  planned  that 
no  trace  would  be  left  of  the  murderer  or  murderers. 

No  theory  could  be  imagined  save  the  rather  vague  one 
of  personal  enmity.  Jim  Starr  was  comparatively  a  new- 
comer with  us.  Nobody  knew  anything  much  about  him 
or  his  relations.  Nobody  questioned  the  only  man  who 
could  have  told  anything;  and  that  man  did  not  volunteer 
to  tell  what  he  knew. 

I  refer  to  myself.    The  thing  was  sickeningly  clear  to  me. 

34 


THE    KILLER 

Jim  Starr  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  was  the  man  for 
whom  that  bullet  from  the  rim  had  been  intended.  I  was 
the  unthinking,  shortsighted  fool  who  had  done  Jim  Starr 
to  his  death.  It  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  my  mid- 
night reconnoitring  would  leave  tracks,  that  Old  Man 
Hooper's  suspicious  vigilance  would  even  look  for  tracks. 
But  given  that  vigilance,  the  rest  followed  plainly  enough. 
A  skillful  trailer  would  have  found  his  way  to  where  I  had 
mounted;  he  would  have  followed  my  horse  to  Arroyo  Seco 
where  I  had  met  with  Jim  Starr.  There  he  would  have 
visualized  a  rider  on  a  horse  without  one  shoe  coming  as  far 
as  the  Arroyo,  meeting  me,  and  returning  whence  he  had 
come;  and  me  at  once  turning  off  at  right  angles.  His 
natural  conclusion  would  be  that  a  messenger  had  brought 
me  orders  and  had  returned.  The  fact  that  we  had  shifted 
mounts  he  could  not  have  read,  for  the  reason — as  I  only 
too  distinctly  remembered — that  we  had  made  the  change 
in  the  boulder  and  rock  stream  bed  which  would  show  no 
clear  traces. 

The  thought  that  poor  Jim  Starr,  whom  I  had  well  liked, 
had  been  sacrificed  for  me,  rendered  my  ride  home  with  the 
convoy  more  deeply  thoughtful  than  even  the  tragic  circum- 
stances warranted.  We  laid  his  body  in  the  small  office, 
pending  Buck  Johnson's  return  from  town,  and  ate  our  be- 
lated meal  in  silence.  Then  we  gathered  around  the  corner 
fireplace  in  the  bunk  house,  lit  our  smokes,  and  talked  it 
over.  Jed  Parker  joined  us.  Usually  he  sat  with  our  owner 
in  the  office. 

Hardly  had  we  settled  ourselves  to  discussion  when  the 
door  opened  and  Buck  Johnson  came  in.  We  had  been  so 

35 


THE    KILLER 

absorbed  that  no  one  had  heard  him  ride  up.  He  leaned 
his  forearm  against  the  doorway  at  the  height  of  his  head 
and  surveyed  the  silenced  group  rather  ironically. 

"Lucky  I'm  not  nervous  and  jumpy  by  nature,"  he  ob- 
served. "I've  seen  dead  men  before.  Still,  next  time  you 
want  to  leave  one  in  my  office  after  dark,  I  wish  you'd  put 
a  light  with  him,  or  tack  up  a  sign,  or  even  leave  somebody 
to  tell  me  about  it.  I'm  sorry  it's  Starr  and  not  that  thought- 
ful old  horned  toad  in  the  corner." 

Jed  looked  foolish,  but  said  nothing.  Buck  came  in, 
closed  the  door,  and  took  a  chair  square  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place. The  glow  of  the  leaping  flames  was  full  upon  him. 
His  strong  face  and  bulky  figure  were  revealed,  while  the 
other  men  sat  in  half  shadow.  He  at  once  took  charge  of 
the  discussion. 

"How  was  he  killed?"  he  inquired,  "bucked  off?" 

"Shot,"  replied  Jed  Parker. 

Buck's  eyebrows  came  together. 

"Who?  "he  asked. 

He  was  told  the  circumstances  as  far  as  they  were  known, 
but  declined  to  listen  to  any  of  the  various  deductions  and 
surmises. 

"Deliberate  murder  and  not  a  chance  quarrel,"  he  con- 
cluded. "He  wasn't  even  within  hollering  distance  of  that 
rim-rock.  Anybody  know  anything  about  Starr?  " 

"He's  been  with  us  about  five  weeks,"  proffered  Jed,  as 
foreman.  " Said  he  came  from  Texas." 

"He  was  a  Texican,"  corroborated  one  of  the  other  men. 
"I  rode  with  him  considerable." 

"What  enemies  did  he  have? "  asked  Buck. 

36 


THE    KILLER 

But  it  developed  that,  as  far  as  these  men  knew,  Jim  Starr 
had  had  no  enemies.  He  was  a  quiet  sort  of  a  fellow.  He  had 
been  to  town  once  or  twice.  Of  course  he  might  have  made 
an  enemy,  but  it  was  not  likely;  he  had  always  behaved 
himself.  Somebody  would  have  known  of  any  trouble 

"  Maybe  somebody  followed  him  from  Texas." 

"More  likely  the  usual  local  work,"  Buck  interrupted. 
"This  man  Starr  ever  met  up  with  Old  Man  Hooper  or 
Hooper's  men?  " 

But  here  was  another  impasse.  Starr  had  been  over  on 
the  Slick  Rock  ever  since  his  arrival.  I  could  have  thrown 
some  light  on  the  matter,  perhaps,  but  new  thoughts  were 
coming  to  me  and  I  kept  silence. 

Shortly  Buck  Johnson  went  out.  His  departure  loosened 
tongues,  among  them  mine. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  stand  for  this  old  hombre  if  he's  as 
bad  as  you  say,"  I  broke  in.  "Why  don't  some  of  you  brave 
young  warriors  just  naturally  pot  him?" 

And  that  started  a  new  line  of  discussion  that  left  me  even 
more  thoughtful  than  before.  I  knew  these  men  intimately. 
There  was  not  a  coward  among  them.  They  had  been  tried 
and  hardened  and  tempered  in  the  fierceness  of  the  desert. 
Any  one  of  them  would  have  twisted  the  tail  of  the  devil 
himself;  but  they  were  off  Old  Man  Hooper.  They  did  not 
make  that  admission  in  so  many  words ;  far  from  it.  And  I 
valued  my  hide  enough  to  refrain  from  pointing  the  fact.  But 
that  fact  remained :  they  were  off  Old  Man  Hooper.  Fur- 
thermore, by  the  time  they  had  finished  recounting  in  inti- 
mate detail  some  scores  of  anecdotes  dealing  with  what 
happened  when  Old  Man  Hooper  winked  his  wildcat  eye,  I 

37 


THE    KILLER 

began  in  spite  of  myself  to  share  some  of  their  sentiments. 
For  no  matter  how  flagrant  the  killing,  nor  how  certain 
morally  the  origin,  never  had  the  most  brilliant  nor  the  most 
painstaking  effort  been  able  to  connect  with  the  slayers  nor 
their  instigator.  He  worked  in  the  dark  by  hidden  hands; 
but  the  death  from  the  hands  was  as  certain  as  the  rattle- 
snake's. Certain  of  his  victims,  by  luck  or  cleverness, 
seemed  to  have  escaped  sometimes  as  many  as  three  or  four 
attempts  but  in  the  end  the  old  man's  Killers  got  them. 

A  Jew  drummer  who  had  grossly  insulted  Hooper  in  the 
Lone  Star  Emporium  had,  on  learning  the  enormity  of  his 
crime,  fled  to  San  Francisco.  Three  months  later  Soda 
Springs  awoke  to  find  pasted  by  an  unknown  hand  on  the 
window  of  the  Emporium  a  newspaper  account  of  that  Jew 
drummer's  taking  off.  The  newspaper  could  offer  no  theory 
and  merely  recited  the  fact  that  the  man  suffered  from  a 
heavy-calibred  bullet.  But  always  the  talk  turned  back 
at  last  to  that  crowning  atrocity,  the  Boomerang,  with  its 
windrows  of  little  calves,  starved  for  water,  lying  against 
the  fence. 

"Yes,"  someone  unexpectedly  answered  my  first  question 
at  last,  "  someone  could  just  naturally  pot  him  easy  enough. 
But  I  got  a  hunch  that  he  couldn't  get  fur  enough  away  to 
feel  safe  afterward.  The  fellow  with  a  hankering  for  a 
good  usefid  kind  of  suicide  could  get  it  right  there.  Any 
candidates?  You-all  been  looking  kinda  mournful  lately, 
Windy;  s'pose  you  be  the  human  benefactor  and  rid  the 
world  of  this  yere  reptile." 

"Me?"  said  Windy  with  vast  surprise,  "me  mournful? 
Why,  I  sing  at  my  work  like  a  little  dicky  bird.  I'm  so 

38 


THE    KILLER 

plumb  cheerful  bull  frogs  ain't  in  it.  You  ain't  talking  to 
me!" 

But  I  wanted  one  more  point  of  information  before  the 
conversation  veered. 

"  Does  his  daughter  ever  ride  out?  "  I  asked. 

" Daughter?"  they  echoed  in  surprise. 

"Or  niece,  or  whoever  she  is,"  I  supplemented  impa- 
tiently. 

"There's  no  woman  there;  not  even  a  Mex,"  said  one, 
and  "Did  you  see  any  sign  of  any  woman?"  keenly  from 
Windy  BUI. 

But  I  was  not  minded  to  be  drawn. 

"  Somebody  told  me  about  a  daughter,  or  niece,  or  some- 
thing," I  said,  vaguely. 


39 


CHAPTER  VI 

I  lay  in  my  bunk  and  cast  things  up  in  my  mind.  The 
patch  of  moonlight  from  the  window  moved  slowly  across 
the  floor.  One  of  the  men  was  snoring,  but  with  regularity, 
so  he  did  not  annoy  me.  The  outside  silence  was  softly 
musical  with  all  the  little  voices  that  at  Hooper's  had  so  dis- 
concertingly lacked.  There  were  crickets — I  had  forgotten 
about  them — and  frogs,  and  a  hoot  owl,  and  various  such 
matters,  beneath  whose  influence  customarily  my  conscious- 
ness merged  into  sleep  so  sweetly  that  I  never  knew  when  I 
had  lost  them.  But  I  was  never  wider  awake  than  now, 
and  never  had  I  done  more  concentrated  thinking. 

For  the  moment,  and  for  the  moment,  only,  I  was  safe. 
Old  Man  Hooper  thought  he  had  put  me  out  of  the  way. 
How  long  would  he  continue  to  think  so?  How  long  before 
his  men  would  bring  true  word  of  the  mistake  that  had  been 
made?  Perhaps  the  following  day  would  inform  him  that 
Jim  Starr  and  not  myself  had  been  reached  by  his  killer's 
bullet.  Then,  I  had  no  doubt,  a  second  attempt  would  be 
made  on  my  life.  Therefore,  whatever  I  was  going  to  do 
must  be  done  quickly. 

I  had  the  choice  of  war  or  retreat.  Would  it  do  me  any 
good  to  retreat?  There  was  the  Jew  drummer  who  was 
killed  in  San  Francisco;  and  others  whose  fates  I  have  not 
detailed.  But  why  should  he  particularly  desire  my  ex- 

40 


THE    KILLER 

tinction?  What  had  I  done  or  what  knowledge  did  I  pos- 
sess that  had  not  been  equally  done  and  known  by  any 
chance  visitor  to  the  ranch?  I  remembered  the  notes  in  my 
shirt  pocket;  and,  at  the  risk  of  awakening  some  of  my  com- 
rades, I  lit  a  candle  and  studied  them.  They  were  undoubt- 
edly written  by  the  same  hand.  To  whom  had  the  other 
been  smuggled?  and  by  what  means  had  it  come  into  Old 
Man  Hooper's  possession?  The  answer  hit  me  so  suddenly, 
and  seemed  intrinsically  so  absurd,  that  I  blew  out  the 
candle  and  lay  again  on  my  back  to  study  it. 

And  the  more  I  studied  it,  the  less  absurd  it  seemed,  not 
by  the  light  of  reason,  but  by  the  feeling  of  pure  intuition. 
I  knew  it  as  sanely  as  I  knew  that  the  moon  made  that  patch 
of  light  through  the  window.  The  man  to  whom  that  other 
note  had  been  surreptitiously  conveyed  by  the  sad-eyed, 
beautiful  girl  of  the  iron-barred  chamber  was  dead;  and  he 
was  dead  because  Old  Man  Hooper  had  so  willed.  And 
the  former  owners  of  the  other  notes  of  the  "Collection" 
concerning  which  the  old  man  had  spoken  were  dead,  too — 
dead  for  the  same  reason  and  by  the  same  hidden  hands. 

Why?  Because  they  knew  about  the  girl?  Unlikely. 
Without  doubt  Hooper  had,  as  in  my  case,  himself  made 
possible  that  knowledge.  But  I  remembered  many  things; 
and  I  knew  that  my  flash  of  intuition,  absurd  as  it  might 
seem  at  first  sight,  was  true.  I  recalled  the  swift,  darting 
onslaughts  with  the  fly  whackers,  the  fierce,  vindictive 
slaughter  of  the  frogs,  his  early-morning  pursuit  of  the  flock 
of  migrating  birds.  Especially  came  clear  to  my  recollec- 
tion the  words  spoken  at  breakfast: 

"Everything  inside  the  walls  is  mine!    Mine!    Mine! 


THE    KILLER 

Understand?  I  will  not  tolerate  anything  that  is  not  mine; 
that  does  not  obey  my  will;  that  does  not  come  when  I  say 
come;  go  when  I  say  go;  and  fall  silent  when  I  say  be  still! " 

My  crime,  the  crime  of  these  men  from  whose  dead  hands 
the  girl's  appeals  had  been  taken  for  the  "Collection,"  was 
that  of  curiosity!  The  old  man  would  within  his  own  do- 
main reign  supreme,  in  the  mental  as  in  the  physical  world. 
The  chance  cowboy,  genuinely  desirous  only  of  a  resting 
place  for  the  night,  rode  away  unscathed;  but  he  whom  the 
old  man  convicted  of  a  prying  spirit  committed  a  lese- 
majesty  that  could  not  be  forgiven.  And  I  had  made  many 
tracks  during  my  night  reconnaissance. 

And  the  same  flash  of  insight  showed  me  that  I  would  be 
followed  wherever  I  went;  and  the  thing  that  convinced  my 
intuitions — not  my  reason — of  this  was  the  recollection  of 
the  old  man  stamping  the  remains  of  the  poor  little  bird  into 
the  mud  by  the  willows.  I  saw  again  the  insane  rage  of  his 
face;  and  I  felt  cold  fingers  touching  my  spine. 

On  this  I  went  abruptly  and  unexpectedly  to  sleep,  after 
the  fashion  of  youth,  and  did  not  stir  until  Sing,  the  cook, 
routed  us  out  before  dawn.  We  were  not  to  ride  the  range 
that  day  because  of  Jim  Starr,  but  Sing  was  a  person  of 
fixed  habits.  I  plunged  my  head  into  the  face  of  the  dawn 
with  a  new  and  light-hearted  confidence.  It  was  one  of 
those  clear,  nile-green  sunrises  whose  lucent  depths  go  back 
a  million  miles  or  so ;  and  my  spirit  followed  on  wings.  Gone 
were  at  once  my  fine-spun  theories  and  my  forebodings  of 
the  night.  Life  was  clean  and  clear  and  simple.  Jim  Stan- 
had  probably  some  personal  enemy.  Old  Man  Hooper  was 
undoubtedly  a  mean  old  lunatic,  and  dangerous;  very  likely 

42 


THE    KILLER 

he  would  attempt  to  do  me  harm,  as  he  said,  if  I  bothered 
him  again,  but  as  for  following  me  to  the  ends  of  the 

earth 

The  girl  was  a  different  matter.  She  required  thought. 
So,  as  I  was  hungry  and  the  day  sparkling,  I  postponed  her 
and  went  in  to  breakfast. 


43 


CHAPTER  VII 

By  the  time  the  coroner's  inquest  and  the  funeral  in  town 
were  over  it  was  three  o'clock  of  the  afternoon.  As  I  only 
occasionally  managed  Soda  Springs  I  felt  no  inclination  to 
hurry  on  the  return  journey.  My  intention  was  to  watch 
the  Overland  through,  to  make  some  small  purchases  at  the 
Lone  Star  Emporium,  to  hoist  one  or  two  at  McGrue's,  and 
to  dine  sumptuously  at  the  best — and  only — hotel.  A  pro- 
gramme simple  in  theme  but  susceptible  to  variations. 

The  latter  began  early.  After  posing  kiddishly  as  a  rough, 
woolly,  romantic  cowboy  before  the  passengers  of  the  Over- 
land, I  found  myself  chaperoning  a  visitor  to  our  midst.  By 
sheer  accident  the  visitor  had  singled  me  out  for  an  inquiry. 

"Can  you  tell  me  how  to  get  to  Hooper's  ranch?"  he 
asked. 

So  I  annexed  him  promptly  in  hope  of  developments. 

He  was  certainly  no  prize  package,  for  he  was  small,  pale, 
nervous,  shifty,  and  rat-like;  and  neither  his  hands  nor  his 
eyes  were  still  for  an  instant.  Further  to  set  him  apart  he 
wore  a  hard-boiled  hat,  a  flaming  tie,  a  checked  vest,  a  coat 
cut  too  tight  for  even  his  emaciated  little  figure,  and  long 
toothpick  shoes  of  patent  leather.  A  fairer  mark  for  cow- 
boy humour  would  be  difficult  to  find ;  but  I  had  a  personal 
interest  and  a  determined  character  so  the  gang  took  a  look 
at  me  and  bided  their  time. 

44 


THE    KILLER 

But  immediately  I  discovered  I  was  going  to  have  my 
hands  full.  It  seemed  that  the  little,  shifty,  rat-faced  man 
had  been  possessed  of  a  small  handbag  which  the  negro 
porter  had  failed  to  put  off  the  train;  and  which  was  of  tre- 
mendous importance.  At  the  discovery  it  was  lacking  my 
new  friend  went  into  hysterics.  He  ran  a  few  feet  after  the 
disappearing  train;  he  called  upon  high  heaven  to  destroy 
utterly  the  race  of  negro  porters;  he  threatened  terrible 
reprisals  against  a  delinquent  railroad  company;  he  seized 
upon  a  bewildered  station  agent  over  whom  he  poured  his 
troubles  in  one  gush;  and  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept — 
literally  wept!  This  to  the  vast  enjoyment  of  my  friends. 

"  What  ails  the  small  party?  "  asked  Windy  Bill  coming  up. 

"  He's  lost  the  family  jewels ! "  l  'The  papers  are  missing. ' ' 
"Sandy  here  (meaning  me)  won't  give  him  his  bottle  and 
it's  past  feeding  time."  "Sandy's  took  away  his  stick  of 
candy  and  won't  give  it  back."  "The  little  son-of-a-gun's 
just  remembered  that  he  give  the  nigger  porter  two  bits," 
were  some  of  the  replies  he  got. 

On  the  general  principle  of  "never  start  anything  you 
can't  finish,"  I  managed  to  quell  the  disturbance;  I  got  a 
description  of  the  bag,  and  arranged  to  have  it  wired  for  at 
the  next  station.  On  receiving  the  news  that  it  could  not 
possibly  be  returned  before  the  following  morning,  my  pro- 
tege showed  signs  of  another  outburst.  To  prevent  it  I 
took  him  firmly  by  the  arm  and  led  him  across  to  McGrue's. 
He  was  shivering  as  though  from  a  violent  chill. 

The  multitude  trailed  interestedly  after;  but  I  took  my 
man  into  one  of  McGrue's  private  rooms  and  firmly  closed 
the  door. 

45 


TH£  KILLER 

"Put  that  under  your  belt,"  I  invited,  pouring  him  a  half 
tumbler  of  McGrue's  best,  "and  pull  yourself  together." 

He  smelled  it. 

"It's  only  whiskey,"  he  observed,  mournfully.  "That 
won't  help  much." 

"You  don't  know  this  stuff,"  I  encouraged. 

He  took  off  the  half  tumbler  without  a  blink,  shook  his 
head,  and  poured  himself  another.  In  spite  of  his  scepti- 
cism I  thought  his  nervousness  became  less  marked. 

"Now,"  said  I,  "if  you  don't  mind,  why  do  you  descend 
on  a  peaceful  community  and  stir  it  all  up  because  of  the 
derelictions  of  an  absent  coon?  And  why  do  you  set  such 
store  by  your  travelling  bag?  And  why  do  you  weep  in  the 
face  of  high  heaven  and  outraged  manhood?  And  why  do 
you  want  to  find  Hooper's  ranch?  And  why  are  you  and 
your  vaudeville  make  up?" 

But  he  proved  singularly  embarrassed  and  nervous  and 
uncommunicative,  darting  his  glance  here  and  there  about 
him,  twisting  his  hands,  never  by  any  chance  meeting  my 
eye.  I  leaned  back  and  surveyed  him  in  considerable  disgust. 

"Look  here,  brother,"  I  pointed  out  to  him.  "You  don't 
seem  to  realize.  A  man  like  you  can't  get  away  with  him- 
self in  this  country  except  behind  footlights — and  there  ain't 
any  footlights.  All  I  got  to  do  is  to  throw  open  yonder 
door  and  withdraw  my  beneficent  protection  and  you  will 
be  set  upon  by  a  pack  of  ravening  wolves  with  their  own 
ideas  of  humour,  among  whom  I  especially  mention  one 
Windy  Bill.  I'm  about  the  only  thing  that  looks  like  a 
friend  you've  got." 

He  caught  at  the  last  sentence  only. 

46 


THE    KILLER 

"You  my  friend?"  he  said,  breathlessly,  "then  tell  me: 
is  there  a  doctor  around  here?  " 

"No,"  said  I,  looking  at  him  closely,  "not  this  side  of 
Tucson.  Are  you  sick?  " 

"Is  there  a  drug  store  in  town,  then? " 

"Nary  drug  store." 

He  jumped  to  his  feet,  knocking  over  his  chair  as  he  did  so. 

"My  God!"  he  cried  in  uncontrollable  excitement,  "I've 
got  to  get  my  bag!  How  far  is  it  to  the  next  station  where 
they're  going  to  put  it  off?  Ain't  there  some  way  of  getting 
there?  I  got  to  get  to  my  bag." 

"It's  near  to  forty  miles,"  I  replied,  leaning  back. 

"And  there's  no  drug  store  here?  What  kind  of  a  bum 
tank  town  is  this,  anyhow?  " 

"They  keep  a  few  patent  medicines  and  such  over  at  the 

Lone  Star  Emporium "  I  started  to  tell  him.  I  never 

had  a  chance  to  finish  my  sentence.  He  darted  around  the 
table,  grabbed  me  by  the  arm,  and  urged  me  to  my  feet. 

"  Show  me !"  he  panted. 

We  sailed  through  the  bar  room  under  full  head  of  steam, 
leaving  the  gang  staring  after  us  open-mouthed.  I  could  feel 
we  were  exciting  considerable  public  interest.  At  the  Lone 
Star  Emporium  the  little  freak  looked  wildly  about  him  until 
his  eyes  fell  on  the  bottle  shelves.  Then  he  rushed  right  in 
behind  the  counter  and  began  to  paw  them  over.  I  headed 
off  Sol  Levi,  who  was  coming  front  making  war  medicine. 

"Loco"  says  I  to  him.  "If  there's  any  damage,  I'll 
settle." 

It  looked  like  there  was  going  to  be  damage  all  right,  the 
way  he  snatched  up  one  bottle  after  the  other,  read  the 

47 


THE    KILLER 

labels,  and  thrust  them  one  side.    At  last  he  uttered  a  crow 
of  delight,  just  like  a  kid. 

"How  many  you  got  of  these?"  he  demanded,  holding 
up  a  bottle  of  soothing  syrup. 

"You  only  take  a  tablespoon  of  that  stuff "  began  Sol. 

"How  many  you  got — how  much  are  they?"  interrupted 
the  stranger. 

"Six — three  dollars  a  bottle,"  says  Sol,  boosting  the  price. 

The  little  man  peeled  a  twenty  off  a  roll  of  bills  and  threw 
it  down. 

"Keep  the  other  five  bottles  for  me!"  he  cried  in  a  shaky 
voice,  and  ran  out,  with  me  after  him,  forgetting  his  change 
and  to  shut  the  door  behind  us. 

Back  through  McGrue's  bar  we  trailed  like  one  of  these 
moving-picture  chases  and  into  the  back  room. 

"Well,  here  we  are  home  again,"  said  I. 

The  stranger  grabbed  a  glass  and  filled  it  half  full  of 
soothing  syrup. 

"Here,  you  aren't  going  to  drink  that!"  I  yelled  at  him. 
"Didn't  you  hear  Sol  tell  you  the  dose  is  a  spoonful?  " 

But  he  didn't  pay  me  any  attention.  His  hand  was  shak- 
ing so  he  could  hardly  connect  with  his  own  mouth,  and  he 
was  panting  as  though  he'd  run  a  race. 

"Well,  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  I  said.  "Where  do 
you  want  me  to  ship  your  remains?  " 

He  drank  her  down,  shut  his  eyes  a  few  minutes,  and  held 
still.  He  had  quit  his  shaking,  and  he  looked  me  square 
in  the  face. 

"What's  it  to  you?"  he  demanded.  "Huh?  Ain't  you 
never  seen  a  guy  hit  the  hop  before?  " 

48 


THE    KILLER 

He  stared  at  me  so  truculently  that  I  was  moved  to  right- 
eous wrath;  and  I  answered  him  back.  I  told  hirp  what  I 
thought  of  him  and  his  clothes  and  his  conduct  at  quite  some 
length.  When  I  had  finished  he  seemed  to  have  gained  a 
new  attitude  of  aggravating  wise  superiority. 

"That's  all  right,  kid;  that's  all  right,"  he  assured  me; 
"keep  your  hair  on.  I  ain't  such  a  bad  scout;  but  you  gotta 
get  used  to  me.  Give  me  my  hop  and  I'm  all  right.  Now 
about  this  Hooper;  you  say  you  know  him?" 

"None  better,"  I  rejoined.  "But  what's  that  to  you? 
That's  a  fair  question." 

He  bored  me  with  his  beady  rat  eyes  for  several  seconds. 

"Friend  of  yours? "  he  asked,  briefly. 

Something  in  the  intonations  of  his  voice  induced  me  to 
frankness. 

"I  have  good  cause  to  think  he's  trying  to  kill  me,"  I 
replied. 

He  produced  a  pocketbook,  fumbled  in  it  for  a  moment, 
and  laid  before  me  a  clipping.  It  was  from  the  Want  column 
of  a  newspaper,  and  read  as  follows: 

A.A.B. — Will  deal  with  you  on  your  terms.  H.H. 

"A.A.B.  that's  me— Artie  Brower.  And  H.H.— that's 
him — Henry  Hooper,"  he  explained.  "And  that  lil'  piece 
of  paper  means  that's  he's  caved,  come  off,  war's  over. 
Means  I'm  rich,  that  I  can  have  my  own  ponies  if  I  want 
to,  'stead  of  touting  somebody  else's  old  dogs.  It  means 
that  I  got  old  H.H. — Henry  Hooper — where  the  hair  is 
short,  and  he's  got  to  come  my  way ! " 

His  eyes  were  glittering  restlessly,  and  the  pupils  seemed 

49 


THE    KILLER 

to  be  unduly  dilated.  The  whiskey  and  opium  together — 
probably  an  unaccustomed  combination — were  too  much 
for  his  ill-balanced  control.  Every  indication  of  his  face 
and  his  narrow  eyes  was  for  secrecy  and  craft;  yet  for  the 
moment  he  was  opening  up  to  me,  a  stranger,  like  an  oyster. 
Even  my  inexperience  could  see  that  much,  and  I  eagerly 
took  advantage  of  my  chance. 

"You  are  a  horseman,  then?"  I  suggested. 

"Me  a  horseman?  Say,  kid,  you  didn't  get  my  name. 
Brower — Artie  Brower.  Why,  I've  ridden  more  winning 
races  than  any  other  man  on  the  Pacific  Coast.  That's  how 
I  got  onto  old  H.H.  I  rode  for  him.  He  knows  a  good 
horse  all  right — the  old  skunk.  Used  to  have  a  pretty 
string." 

"He's  got  at  least  one  good  Morgan  stallion  now,"  said  I. 
"  I've  seen  him  at  Hooper's  ranch." 

"I  know  the  old  crock — trotter,"  scorned  the  true  riding 
jockey.  "Probably  old  Tim  Westmore  is  hanging  around, 
too.  He's  in  love  with  that  horse." 

"Is  he  in  love  with  Hooper,  too?"  I  asked. 

"Just  like  I  am,"  said  the  jockey  with  a  leer. 

" So  you're  going  to  be  rich,"  said  I.     "How's  that? " 

He  leered  at  me  again,  going  foxy. 

"Don't  you  wish  you  knew!  But  I'll  tell  you  this:  old 
H.H.  is  going  to  give  me  all  I  want — just  because  I  ask  him 
to." 

I  took  another  tack,  affecting  incredulity. 

"The  hell  he  is !  He'll  hand  you  over  to  Ramon  and  that 
will  be  the  last  of  a  certain  jockey." 

"No,  he  won't  do  no  such  trick.     I've  fixed  that;  and  he 


THE    KILLER 

knows  it.  If  he  kills  me,  he'll  lose  all  he's  got  'stead  of  only 
part." 

"  You're  drunk  or  dreaming,"  said  I.  "  If  you  bother  him, 
he'll  just  plain  have  you  killed.  That's  a  little  way  of  his." 

"And  if  he  does  a  friend  of  mine  will  just  go  to  a  certain 
place  and  get  certain  papers  and  give  'em  to  a  certain  lawyer 
—and  then  where's  old  H.H.  ?  And  he  knows  it,  damn  well. 
And  he's  going  to  be  good  to  Artie  and  give  him  what  he 
wants.  We'll  get  along  fine.  Took  him  a  long  time  to 
come  to  it;  but  I  didn't  take  no  chances  while  he  was  mak- 
ing up  his  mind;  you  can  bet  on  that." 

"Blackmail,  eh?"  I  said,  with  just  enough  of  a  sneer  to 
fire  him. 

"Blackmail  nothing!"  he  shouted.  "It  ain't  blackmail 
to  take  away  what  don't  belong  to  a  man  at  all!" 

"What  don't  belong  to  him?" 

"Nothing.  Not  a  damn  thing  except  his  money.  This 
ranch.  The  oil  wells  in  California.  The  cattle.  Not  a 
damn  thing.  That  was  the  agreement  with  his  pardner  when 
they  split.  And  I've  got  the  agreement!  Now  what  you 
got  to  say?" 

"Say?  Why  its  loco  !  Why  doesn't  the  pardner  raise  a 
row?" 

"He's  dead." 

"His  heirs  then?" 

"He  hasn't  got  but  one  heir — his  daughter."  My 
heart  skipped  a  beat  in  the  amazement  of  a  half  idea. 
"And  she  knew  nothing  about  the  agreement.  Nobody 
knows  but  old  H.H.— and  me."  He  sat  back,  visibly 
gloating  over  me.  But  his  mood  was  passing.  His  earlier 


THE    KILLER 

exhilaration  had  died,  and  with  it  was  dying  the  expansive- 
ness  of  his  confidence.  The  triumph  of  his  last  speech 
savoured  he  slipped  again  into  his  normal  self.  He  looked 
at  me  suspiciously,  and  raised  his  whiskey  to  cover  his  con- 
fusion. 

"What's  it  to  yuh,  anyway?"  he  muttered  into  his  glass 
darkly.  His  eyes  were  again  shifting  here  and  there;  and 
his  lips  were  snarled  back  malevolently  to  show  his  teeth. 

At  this  precise  moment  the  lords  of  chance  willed  Windy 
Bill  and  others  to  intrude  on  our  privacy  by  opening  the 
door  and  hurling  several  whiskey-flavoured  sarcasms  at  the 
pair  of  us.  The  jockey  seemed  to  explode  after  the  fashion 
of  an  over-inflated  ball.  He  squeaked  like  a  rat,  leaped  to 
his  feet,  hurled  the  chair  on  which  he  had  been  sitting 
crash  against  the  door  from  which  Windy  Bill  el  al  had 
withdrawn  hastily,  and  ended  by  producing  a  small  wicked- 
looking  automatic — then  a  new  and  strange  weapon — and 
rushing  out  into  the  main  saloon.  There  he  announced 
that  he  was  known  to  the  cognoscenti  as  Art  the  Blood  and 
was  a  city  gunman  in  comparison  with  which  these  plain, 
so-called  bad  men  were  as  sucking  doves  to  the  untamed 
eagle.  Thence  he  glanced  briefly  at  their  ancestry  as  far 
as  known;  and  ended  by  rushing  forth  in  the  general  direction 
of  McCloud's  hotel. 

"Suffering  giraffes!"  gasped  Windy  Bill  after  the  whirl- 
wind had  passed.  "Was  that  the  scared  little  rabbit  that 
wept  all  them  salt  tears  over  at  the  depot?  What  brand 
of  licker  did  you  feed  him,  Sandy?" 

I  silently  handed  him  the  bottle. 

"  Soothing  syrup — my  God ! "  said  Windy  in  hushed  tones. 

52 


CHAPTER  VHI 

At  that  epoch  I  prided  myself  on  being  a  man  of  resource; 
and  I  proceeded  to  prove  it  in  a  fashion  that  even  now  fills 
me  with  satisfaction.  I  annexed  the  remainder  of  that 
bottle  of  soothing  syrup;  I  went  to  Sol  Levi  and  easily  pro- 
cured delivery  of  the  other  five.  Then  I  strolled  peacefully 
to  supper  over  at  McCloud's  hotel.  Pathological  knowl- 
edge of  dope  fiends  was  outside  my  ken — I  could  not  guess 
how  soon  my  man  would  need  another  dose  of  his  "hop," 
but  I  was  positively  sure  that  another  would  be  needed. 
Inquiry  of  McCloud  elicited  the  fact  that  the  ex-jockey  had 
swallowed  a  hasty  meal  and  had  immediately  retired  to 
Room  4.  I  found  Room  4  unlocked,  and  Brower  lying  fully 
clothed  sound  asleep  across  the  bed.  I  did  not  disturb  him, 
except  that  I  robbed  him  of  his  pistol.  All  looked  safe  for 
awhile;  but  just  to  be  certain  I  took  Room  6,  across  the 
narrow  hall,  and  left  both  doors  open.  McCloud's  hotel 
never  did  much  of  a  room  business.  By  midnight  the  cow- 
boys would  be  on  their  way  for  the  ranches.  Brower  and 
myself  were  the  only  occupants  of  the  second  floor. 

For  two  hours  I  smoked  and  read.  The  ex-jockey  did 
not  move  a  muscle.  Then  I  went  to  bed  and  to  a  sound 
sleep;  but  I  set  my  mind  like  an  alarm  dock,  so  that  the 
slightest  move  from  the  other  room  would  have  fetched  me 
broad  awake.  City-bred  people  may  not  know  that  this 

53 


THE    KILLER 

can  be  done  by  most  outdoor  men.  I  have  listened  sub- 
consciously to  horsebells  for  so  many  nights,  for  example, 
that  even  on  stormy  nights  the  cessation  of  that  faint  twinkle 
will  awaken  me,  while  the  crash  of  the  elements  or  even  the 
fall  of  a  tree  would  not  in  the  slightest  disturb  my  tired 
slumbers.  So  now,  although  the  songs  and  stamping  and 
racket  of  the  revellers  below  stairs  in  McCloud's  bar  did 
not  for  one  second  prevent  my  falling  into  deep  and  dream- 
less sleep,  B  rower's  softest  tread  would  have  reached  my 
consciousness. 

However,  he  slept  right  through  the  night,  and  was  still 
dead  to  the  world  when  I  slipped  out  at  six  o'clock  to  meet 
the  east-bound  train.  The  bag — a  small  black  Gladstone- 
was  aboard  in  charge  of  the  baggageman.  I  had  no  great 
difficulty  in  getting  it  from  my  friend,  the  station  agent. 
Had  he  not  seen  me  herding  the  locoed  stranger?  I  secreted 
the  black  bag  with  the  five  full  bottles  of  soothing  syrup, 
slipped  the  half-emptied  bottle  in  my  pocket,  and  returned 
to  the  hotel.  There  I  ate  breakfast,  and  sat  down  for  a 
comfortable  chat  with  McCloud  while  awaiting  results. 

Got  them  very  promptly.  About  eight  o'clock  Brower 
came  downstairs.  He  passed  through  the  office,  nodding 
curtly  to  McCloud  and  me,  and  into  the  dining  room 
where  he  drank  several  cups  of  coffee.  Thence  he  passed 
down  the  street  toward  Sol  Levi's.  He  emerged  rather 
hurriedly  and  slanted  across  to  the  station. 

"In  about  two  minutes,"  I  observed  to  McCloud,  "you're 
going  to  observe  yon  butterfly  turn  into  a  stinging  lizard. 
He's  going  to  head  in  this  direction;  and  he'll  probably  aim 
to  climb  my  hump.  Such  being  the  case,  and  the  affair 

54 


THE    KILLER 

being  private,  you '11  do  me  a  favour  by  supervising  something 
in  some  remote  corner  of  the  premises." 

"Sure,"  said  McCloud,  "I'll  go  twist  that  Chink  washee- 
man.  Been  intending  to  for  a  week."  And  he  stumped 
out  on  his  wooden  foot. 

The  comet  hit  at  precisely  7 142  by  McCloud's  big  clock. 
Its  head  was  Brower  at  high  speed  and  tension;  and  its  tail 
was  the  light  alkali  dust  of  Arizona  mingled  with  the  station 
agent.  No  irresistible  force  and  immovable  body  proposi- 
tion in  mine ;  I  gave  to  the  impact. 

"Why,  sure,  I  got  'em  for  you/'  I  answered.  "You  left 
your  dope  lying  around  loose  so  I  took  care  of  it  for  you. 
As  for  your  bag;  you  seemed  to  set  such  store  by  it  that  I 
got  that  for  you,  too." 

Which  deflated  that  particular  enterprise  for  the  mo- 
ment, anyway.  The  station  agent,  too  mad  to  spit,  de- 
parted before  he  should  be  tempted  beyond  his  strength 
to  resist  homicide. 

"I  suppose  you're  taking  care  of  my  gun  for  me,  too," 
said  Brower;  but  his  irony  was  weak.  He  was  evidently 
off  the  boil. 

"Your  gun? "  I  echoed.    "Have  you  lost  your  gun? " 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  His  super-excite- 
ment had  passed,  leaving  him  weak  and  nervous.  Now  was 
the  time  for  my  counter-attack. 

"Here's  your  gun,"  said  I,  "didn't  want  to  collect  any 
lead  while  you  were  excited,  and  I've  got  your  dope,"  I 
repeated,  "in  a  safe  place."  I  added,  "and  you'll  not  see 
any  of  it  again  until  you  answer  me  a  few  questions,  and 
answer  them  straight." 

55 


THE    KILLER 

"If  you  think  you  can  roll  me  for  blackmail,"  he  came 
back  with  some  decision,  "you're  left  a  mile." 

"I  don't  want  a  cent;  but  I  do  want  a  talk." 

"Shoot,"  said  he. 

"How  often  do  you  have  to  have  this  dope — for  the  best 
results;  and  how  much  of  it  at  a  shot? ' 

He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment,  then  laughed. 

"What's  it  to  yuh? "  he  repeated  his  formula. 

"I  want  to  know." 

"I  get  to  needing  it  about  once  a  day.  Three  grains  will 
carry  me  by." 

"All  right;  that's  what  I  want  to  know.  Now  listen  to 
me.  I'm  custodian  of  this  dope,  and  you'll  get  your  regular 
ration  as  long  as  you  stick  with  me." 

"  I  can  always  hop  a  train.  This  ain't  the  only  hamlet  on 
the  map,"  he  reminded  me. 

"That's  always  what  you  can  do  if  you  find  we  can't 
work  together.  That's  where  you've  got  me  if  my  proposi- 
tion doesn't  sound  good." 

"What  is  your  proposition?"  he  asked  after  a  moment. 

"Before  I  tell  you,  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  few  pointers 
on  what  you're  up  against.  I  don't  know  how  much  you 
know  about  Old  Man  Hooper,  but  I'll  bet  there's  plenty 
you  don't  know  about." 

I  proceeded  to  tell  him  something  of  the  old  man's 
methods,  from  the  "boomerang"  to  vicarious  murder. 

"And  he  gets  away  with  it?"  asked  Brower  when  I  had 
finished. 

"He  certainly  does,"  said  I.  "Now,"  I  continued, 
"you  may  be  solid  as  a  brick  church,  and  your  plans  may 

56 


THE    KILLER 

be  water-tight,  and  old  Hooper  may  kill  the  fatted  four- 
year-old,  for  all  I  know.  But  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  go 
sasshaying  all  alone  out  to  Hooper's  ranch.  It's  altogether 
too  blame  confiding  and  innocent." 

"  If  anything  happens  to  me,  I Ve  left  directions  for  those 
contracts  to  be  recorded,"  he  pointed  out.  "Old  Hooper 
knows  that." 

" Oh,  sure ! "  I  replied,  "just  like  that !  But  one  day  your 
trustworthy  friend  back  yonder  will  get  a  letter  in  your  well- 
known  hand- write  that  will  say  that  all  is  well  and  the  goose 
hangs  high,  that  the  old  man  is  a  prince  and  has  come 
through,  and  that  in  accordance  with  the  nice,  friendly 
agreement  you  have  reached  he — your  friend — will  hand 
over  the  contract  to  a  very  respectable  lawyer  herein  named, 
and  so  forth  and  so  on,  ending  with  your  equally  well-known 
John  Hancock." 

"Well,  that's  all  right." 

"I  hadn't  finished  the  picture.  In  the  meantime,  you 
will  be  getting  out  of  it  just  one  good  swift  kick,  and  that 
is  all." 

"I  shouldn't  write  any  such  letter.  Not  'till  I  felt  the 
feel  of  the  dough." 

"Not  at  first  you  wouldn't,"  I  said,  softly.  "Certainly 
not  at  first.  But  after  a  while  you  would.  These  renegade 
Mexicans — like  Hooper's  Ramon,  for  example — know  a  lot 
of  rotten  little  tricks.  They  drive  pitch-pine  splinters  into 
your  legs  and  set  fire  to  them,  for  one  thing.  Or  make 
small  cuts  in  you  with  a  knife,  and  load  them  up  with  powder 
squibs  in  oiled  paper — so  the  blood  won't  wet  them — and 
touch  them  off.  And  so  on.  When  you've  been  shown 

57 


THE    KILLER 

about  ten  per  cent,  of  what  old  Ramon  knows  about  such 
things,  you'll  write  most  any  kind  of  a  letter." 

"My  God!"  he  muttered,  thrusting  the  ridiculous  derby 
to  the  back  of  his  head. 

"So  you  see  you'd  look  sweet  walking  trustfully  into 
Hooper's  claws.  That's  what  that  newspaper  ad  was  meant 
for.  And  when  the  respectable  lawyer  wrote  that  the  con- 
tract had  been  delivered,  do  you  know  what  would  happen 
to  you?" 

The  ex-jockey  shuddered. 

"But  you've  only  told  me  part  of  what  I  want  to  know," 
I  pursued.  "You  got  me  side-tracked.  This  daughter  of 
the  dead  pardner — this  girl,  what  about  her?  Where  is  she 
now?" 

"Europe,  I  believe." 

"When  did  she  go?" 

["About  three  months  ago." 

"Any  other  relatives?  " 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"H'm,"  I  pondered.    "What  does  she  look  like?" 

"She's  about  medium  height,  dark,  good  figure,  good- 
looking  all  right.  She's  got  eyes  wide  apart  and  a  wide 
forehead.  That's  the  best  I  can  do.  Why?" 

"Anybody  heard  from  her  since  she  went  to  Europe?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  rejoined  Brower,  impatiently. 
"What  you  driving  at? " 

"I  think  I've  seen  her.  I  believe  she's  not  in  Europe 
at  all.  I  believe  she's  a  prisoner  at  the  ranch." 

"My  aunt!"  ejaculated  Brower.  His  nervousness  was 
increasing — the  symptoms  I  was  to  recognize  so  well.  "Why 

58 


THE    KILLER 

the  hell  don't  you  just  shoot  him  from  behind  a  bush? 
I'll  do  it,  if  you  won't." 

"He's  too  smooth  for  that."  And  I  told  him  what  Hooper 
had  told  me.  "His  hold  on  these  Mexicans  is  remarkable. 
I  don't  doubt  that  fifty  of  the  best  killers  in  the  southwest 
have  lists  of  the  men  Old  Man  Hooper  thinks  might  lay  him 
out.  And  every  man  on  that  list  would  get  his  within  a 
year — without  any  doubt.  I  don't  doubt  that  partner's 
daughter  would  go  first  of  all.  You,  too,  of  course." 

"My  aunt!"  groaned  the  jockey  again. 

"He's  a  killer,"  I  went  on,  "by  nature,  and  by  interest — 
a  bad  combination.  He  ought  to  be  tramped  out  like  a 
rattlesnake.  But  this  is  a  new  country,  and  it's  near  the 
border.  I  expect  he's  got  me  marked.  If  I  have  to  I'll 
kill  him  just  like  I  would  a  rattlesnake;  but  that  wouldn't 
do  me  a  whole  lot  of  good  and  would  probably  get  a  bunch 
assassinated.  I'd  like  to  figure  something  different.  So 
you  see  you'd  better  come  on  in  while  the  coming  is 
good." 

"I  see,"  said  the  ex-jockey,  very  much  subdued.  "  What's 
your  idea?  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  " 

That  stumped  me.  To  tell  the  truth  I  had  no  idea  at 
all  what  to  do. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  out  to  Hooper's  ranch  alone," 
said  I. 

"Trust  me!"  he  rejoined,  fervently. 

"I  reckon  the  first  best  thing  is  to  get  along  out  of  town," 
I  suggested.  "That  black  bag  all  the  plunder  you  got?" 

"That's  it." 

"Then  we'U  go  out  a-horseback." 

59 


THE    KILLER 

We  had  lunch  and  a  smoke  and  settled  up  with  McCloud. 
About  mid-afternoon  we  went  on  down  to  the  livery  corral. 
I  knew  the  keeper  pretty  well,  of  course,  so  I  borrowed  a 
horse  and  saddle  for  Brower.  The  latter  looked  with  ex- 
treme disfavour  on  both. 

"  This  is  no  race  meet,"  I  reminded  him.  "  This  is  a  means 
of  transportation." 

"Sorry  I  ain't  got  nothing  better,"  apologized  Meigs, 
to  whom  I  had  confided  my  companion's  profession — I  had 
to  account  for  such  a  figure  somehow.  "All  my  saddle 
bosses  went  off  with  a  mine  outfit  yesterday." 

"What's  the  matter  with  that  chestnut  in  the  shed?" 

"He's  all  right;  fine  beast.  Only  it  ain't  mine.  It  be- 
longs  to  Ramon." 

"Ramon  from  Hooper's?" 

"Yeah." 

"I'd  let  you  ride  my  horse  and  take  Meigs's  old  skate 
myself,"  I  said  to  Brower,  "but  when  you  first  get  on 
him  this  bronc  of  mine  is  a  rip-humming  tail  twister.  Ain't 
he,  Meigs?" 

"He's  a  bad  caballo"  corroborated  Meigs. 

"Does  he  buck?"  queried  Brower,  indifferently. 

"Every  known  fashion.  Bites,  scratches,  gouges,  and 
paws.  Want  to  try  him?  " 

"I  got  a  headache,"  replied  Brower,  grouchily.  "Bring 
out  your  old  dog." 

When  I  came  back  from  roping  and  blindfolding  the 
twisted  dynamite  I  was  engaged  in  "gentling,"  I  found 
that  Brower  was  saddling  the  mournful  creature  with  my 
saddle.  My  expostulation  found  him  very  snappy  and 

60 


THE    KILLER 

very  arbitrary.  His  opium-irritated  nerves  were  beginning 
to  react.  I  realized  that  he  was  not  far  short  of  explosive 
obstinacy.  So  I  conceded  the  point;  although,  as  every 
rider  knows,  a  cowboy's  saddle  and  a  cowboy's  gun  are 
like  unto  a  toothbrush  when  it  comes  to  lending.  Also  it 
involved  changing  the  stirrup  length  on  the  livery  saddle. 
I  needed  things  just  right  to  ride  Tiger  through  the  first 
five  minutes. 

When  I  had  completed  this  latter  operation,  B rower  had 
just  finished  drawing  tight  the  cinch.  His  horse  stood  de- 
jectedly. When  Brower  had  made  fast  the  latigo,  the 
horse — as  such  dispirited  animals  often  do — heaved  a  deep 
sigh.  Something  snapped  beneath  the  slight  strain  of  the 
indrawn  breath. 

"Dogged  if  your  cinch  ain't  busted!"  cried  Meigs  with  a 
loud  laugh.  "Lucky  for  you  your  friend  did  borrow  your 
saddle!  If  you'd  dumb  Tiger  with  that  outfit  you  could 
just  naturally  have  begun  pickin'  out  the  likely-looking 
she-angels." 

I  dropped  the  stirrup  and  went  over  to  examine  the  dam- 
age. Both  of  the  quarter  straps  on  the  off  side  had  given 
way.  I  found  that  they  had  been  cut  nearly  through  with 
a  sharp  knife.  My  eye  strayed  to  Ramon's  chestnut  horse 
standing  under  the  shed. 


61 


CHAPTER  IX 

We  jogged  out  to  Box  Springs  by  way  of  the  lower  alkali 
flats.  It  is  about  three  miles  farther  that  way;  but  one  can 
see  for  miles  in  every  direction.  I  did  not  one  bit  fancy 
the  canons,  the  mesquite  patches,  and  the  open  ground  of 
the  usual  route. 

I  beguiled  the  distance  watching  B rower.  The  animal 
he  rode  was  a  hammer-headed,  ewe-necked  beast  with  a  dis- 
consolate eye  and  a  half-shed  winter  coat.  The  ex-jockey 
was  not  accustomed  to  a  stock  saddle.  He  had  shortened 
his  stirrups  beyond  all  reason  so  that  his  knees  and  his 
pointed  shoes  and  his  elbows  stuck  out  at  all  angles.  He 
had  thrust  his  derby  hat  far  down  over  his  ears,  and  but- 
toned his  inadequate  coat  tightly.  In  addition,  he  was  nour- 
ishing a  very  considerable  grouch,  attributable,  I  suppose, 
to  the  fact  that  his  customary  dose  was  just  about  due. 
Tiger  could  not  be  blamed  for  dancing  wide.  Evening 
was  f  ailing,  the  evening  of  the  desert  when  mysterious  things 
seem  to  swell  and  draw  imminent  out  of  unguessed  distances. 
I  could  not  help  wondering  what  these  gods  of  the  desert 
could  be  thinking  of  us. 

However,  as  we  drew  imperceptibly  nearer  the  tiny  patch 
of  cottonwoods  that  marked  Box  Springs,  I  began  to  realize 
that  it  would  be  more  to  the  point  to  wonder  what  that  gang 
of  hoodlums  in  the  bunk  house  was  going  to  think  of  us. 

62 


THE    KILLER 

The  matter  had  been  fairly  well  carried  off  up  to  that  mo- 
ment, but  I  could  not  hope  for  a  successful  repetition.  No 
man  could  continue  to  lug  around  with  him  so  delicious 
a  vaudeville  sketch  without  some  concession  to  curiosity. 
Nor  could  any  mortal  for  long  wear  such  clothes  in  the  face 
of  Arizona  without  being  required  to  show  cause.  He  had 
got  away  with  it  last  night,  by  surprise;  but  that  would  be 
about  all. 

At  my  fiftieth  attempt  to  enter  into  conversation  with 
him,  I  unexpectedly  succeeded.  I  believe  I  was  indicating 
the  points  of  interest.  You  can  see  farther  in  Arizona  than 
any  place  I  know,  so  there  was  no  difficulty  about  that. 
I'd  pointed  out  the  range  of  the  Chiracahuas,  and  Coch- 
ise's  Stronghold,  and  the  peaks  of  the  Galiuros  and  other 
natural  sceneries;  I  had  showed  him  mesquite  and  yucca, 
and  mescal  and  soapweed,  and  sage,  and  sacatone  and  nig- 
gerheads  and  all  the  other  known  vegetables  of  the  region. 
Also  I'd  indicated  prairie  dogs  and  squinch  owls  and  Gam- 
bel's  quail  and  road  runners  and  a  couple  of  coyotes  and 
lizards  and  other  miscellaneous  fauna.  Not  to  speak  of 
naming  painstakingly  the  ranches  indicated  by  the  clumps 
of  trees  that  you  could  just  make  out  as  little  spots  in  the 
distance — Box  Springs,  the  O.  T.,  the  Double  H,  Fort 
Shaf  ter,  and  Hooper's.  He  waked  up  and  paid  a  little  atten- 
tion at  this;  and  I  thought  I  might  get  a  little  friendly  talk 
out  of  him.  A  cowboy  rides  around  alone  so  much  he  sort 
of  likes  to  josh  when  he  has  anybody  with  him.  This 
"strong  silent"  stuff  doesn't  go  until  you've  used  around 
with  a  man  quite  some  time. 

I  got  the  talk,  all  right,  but  it  didn't  have  a  thing  to  do 

63 


THE    KILLER 

with  topography  or  natural  history.  Unless  you  call  the 
skate  he  was  riding  natural  history.  That  was  the  burden 
of  his  song.  He  didn't  like  that  horse,  and  he  didn't  care 
who  knew  it.  It  was  an  uncomfortable  horse  to  ride  on, 
it  required  exertion  to  keep  in  motion,  and  it  hurt  his  feel- 
ings. Especially  the  last.  He  was  a  horseman,  a  jockey, 
he'd  ridden  the  best  blood  in  the  equine  world;  and  here  he 
was  condemned  through  no  fault  of  his  own  to  straddle  a 
cross  between  a  llama  and  a  woolly  toy  sheep.  It  hurt  his 
pride.  He  felt  bitterly  about  it.  Indeed,  he  fairly  harped 
on  the  subject. 

"Is  that  horse  of  yours  through  bucking  for  the  day?"  he 
asked  at  last. 

"  Certain  thing.    Tiger  never  pitches  but  the  once." 

"Let  me  ride  him  a  ways.  I'd  like  to  feel  a  real  horse  to 
get  the  taste  of  this  kangaroo  out  of  my  system." 

I  could  see  he  was  jumpy,  so  I  thought  I'd  humour  him. 

"Swing  on  all  at  once  and  you're  all  right,"  I  advised  him. 
"Tiger  don't  like  fumbling  in  getting  aboard." 

He  grunted  scornfully. 

"Those  stirrups  are  longer  than  the  ones  you've  been 
using.  Want  to  shorten  them?" 

He  did  not  bother  to  answer,  but  mounted  in  a  decisive 
manner  that  proved  he  was  indeed  a  horseman,  and  a  good 
one.  I  climbed  old  crow  bait  and  let  my  legs  hang. 

The  jockey  gathered  the  reins  and  touched  Tiger  with  his 
heels.  I  kicked  my  animal  with  my  stock  spurs  and  man- 
aged to  extract  a  lumbering  sort  of  gallop. 

"  Hey,  slow  up ! "  I  called  after  a  few  moments.  "  I  can't 
keep  up  with  you." 

64 


THE    KILLER 

Brower  did  not  turn  his  head,  nor  did  Tiger  slow  up. 
After  twenty  seconds  I  realized  that  he  intended  to  do 
neither.  I  ceased  urging  on  my  animal,  there  was  no  use 
tiring  us  both;  evidently  the  jockey  was  enjoying  to  the  full 
the  exhilaration  of  a  good  horse,  and  we  would  catch  up  at 
Box  Springs.  I  only  hoped  the  boys  wouldn't  do  anything 
drastic  to  him  before  my  arrival. 

So  I  jogged  along  at  the  little  running  walk  possessed  by 
even  the  most  humble  cattle  horse,  and  enjoyed  the  even- 
ing. It  was  going  on  toward  dusk  and  pools  of  twilight 
were  in  the  bottomlands.  For  the  moment  the  world  had 
grown  smaller,  more  intimate,  as  the  skies  expanded.  The 
dust  from  Brower's  going  did  not  so  much  recede  as  grow 
littler,  more  toy-like.  I  watched  idly  his  progress. 

At  a  point  perhaps  a  mile  this  side  the  Box  Springs  ranch 
the  road  divides:  the  right-hand  fork  leading  to  the  ranch 
house,  the  left  on  up  the  valley.  After  a  moment  I  noticed 
that  the  dust  was  on  the  left-hand  fork.  I  swore  aloud. 

"The  damn  fool  has  taken  the  wrong  road!"  and  then 
after  a  moment,  with  dismay:  "He's  headed  straight  for 
Hooper's  ranch!" 

I  envisaged  the  full  joy  and  rapture  of  this  thought  for 
perhaps  half  a  minute.  It  sure  complicated  matters,  what 
with  old  Hooper  gunning  on  my  trail,  and  this  partner's 
daughter  shut  up  behind  bars.  Me,  I  expected  to  last 
about  two  days  unless  I  did  something  mighty  sudden. 
Brower  I  expected  might  last  approximately  half  that  time, 
depending  on  how  soon  Ramon  et  al  got  busy.  The  girl  I 
didrr*t  know  anything  about,  nor  did  I  want  to  at  that 
moment.  I  was  plenty  worried  about  my  own  precious 

65 


THE    KILLER 

hide  just  then.  And  if  you  think  you  are  going  to  get  a  love 
story  out  of  this,  I  warn  you  again  to  quit  right  now;  you 
are  not. 

Brower  was  going  to  walk  into  that  gray  old  spider's 
web  like  a  nice  fat  fly.  And  he  was  going  to  land  without 
even  the  aid  and  comfort  of  his  own  particular  brand  of 
Dutch  courage.  For  safety's  sake,  and  because  of  Tiger's 
playful  tendencies  when  first  mounted,  we  had  tied  the 
famous  black  bag — which  now  for  convenience  contained 
also  the  soothing  syrup — behind  the  cantle  of  Meigs's  old 
nag.  Which  said  nag  I  now  possessed  together  with  all 
appurtenances  and  attachments  thereunto  appertaining  I 
tried  to  speculate  on  the  reactions  of  Old  Man  Hooper, 
Ramon,  Brower  and  no  dope,  but  it  was  too  much  for 
me.  My  head  was  getting  tired  thinking  about  all  these 
complicated  things,  anyhow.  I  was  accustomed  to  nice, 
simple  jobs  with  my  head,  like  figuring  on  the  shrinkage  of 
beef  cattle,  or  the  inner  running  of  a  two-card  draw.  All 
this  annoyed  me.  I  began  to  get  mad.  When  I  got  mad 
enough  I  cussed  and  came  to  a  decision:  which  was  to  go 
after  Old  Man  Hooper  and  all  his  works  that  very  night. 
Next  day  wouldn't  do;  I  wanted  action  right  off  quick. 
Naturally  I  had  no  plans,  nor  even  a  glimmering  of  what  I 
was  going  to  do  about  it;  but  you  bet  you  I  was  going  to 
do  something!  As  soon  as  it  was  dark  I  was  going  right  on 
up  there.  Frontal  attack,  you  understand.  As  to  details, 
those  would  take  care  of  themselves  as  the  affair  developed. 
Having  come  to  which  sapient  decision  I  shoved  the  whole 
irritating  mess  over  the  edge  of  my  mind  and  rode  on  quite 
happy.  I  told  you  at  the  start  of  this  yarn  that  I  was  a  kid. 

66 


THE    KILLER 

My  mind  being  now  quite  easy  as  to  my  future  actions,  I 
gave  thought  to  the  first  step.  That  was  supper.  There 
seemed  to  me  no  adequate  reason,  with  a  fine,  long  night 
before  me,  why  I  shouldn't  use  a  little  of  the  shank  end  of  it 
to  stoke  up  for  the  rest.  So  I  turned  at  the  right-hand  fork 
and  jogged  slowly  toward  our  own  ranch. 

Of  course  I  had  the  rotten  luck  to  find  most  of  the  boys 
still  at  the  water  corral.  When  they  saw  who  was  the  lone 
horseman  approaching  through  the  dusk  of  the  spring 
twilight,  and  got  a  good  fair  look  at  the  ensemble,  they 
dropped  everything  and  came  over  to  see  about  it,  headed 
naturally  by  those  mournful  blights, .  Windy  Bill  and 
Wooden.  In  solemn  silence  they  examined  my  outfit,  pay- 
ing not  the  slightest  attention  to  me.  At  the  end  of  a  full 
minute  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"What  do  you  think,  Sam?"  asked  Windy. 

"  My  opinion  is  not  quite  formed,  suh,"  replied  Wooden, 
who  was  a  Texican.  "But  my  first  examination  inclines  me 
to  the  belief  that  it  is  a  hoss." 

"Yo're  wrong,  Sam/'  denied  Windy,  sadly;  "yo're  judg- 
ment is  confused  by  the  fact  that  the  critter  carries  a  saddle. 
Look  at  the  animile  itself." 

"I  have  done  it,"  continued  Sam  Wooden;  "at  first  glance 
I  should  agree  with  you.  Look  carefully,  Windy.  Examine 
the-<letails;  never  mind  the  toot  enscrambk.  It's  got  hoofs." 

"  So's  a  cow,  a  goat,  a  burro,  a  camel,  a  hippypottamus, 
and  the  devil,"  pointed  out  Windy. 

"Of  course  I  may  be  wrong,"  acknowledged  Wooden. 
"On  second  examination  I  probably  am  wrong.  But  if  it 
ain't  a  hoss,  then  what  is  it?  Do  you  know?  " 

67 


THE    KILLER 

"It's  a  genuine  royal  gyasticutus,"  esserted  Windy  Bill, 
positively.  "I  seen  one  once.  It  has  one  peculiarity  that 
you  can't  never  fail  to  identify  it  by." 

"What's  that ?" 

"It  invariably  travels  around  with  a  congenital  idiot." 

Wooden  promptly  conceded  that,  but  claimed  the  iden- 
tification not  complete  as  he  doubted  whether,  strictly 
speaking,  I  could  be  classified  as  a  congenital  idiot.  Windy 
pointed  out  that  evidently  I  had  traded  Tiger  for  the  gyas- 
ticutus. Wooden  admitted  that  this  proved  me  an  idiot, 
but  not  necessarily  a  congenital  idiot. 

This  colloquy — and  more  like  it — went  on  with  entire 
gravity.  The  other  men  were  hanging  about  relishing  the 
situation,  but  without  a  symptom  of  mirth.  I  was  unsad- 
dling methodically,  paying  no  attention  to  anybody,  and 
apparently  deaf  to  all  that  was  being  said.  If  the  two  old 
fools  had  succeeded  in  eliciting  a  word  from  me  they  would 
have  been  entirely  happy;  but  I  knew  that  fact,  and  shut 
my  lips. 

I  hung  my  saddle  on  the  rack  and  was  just  about  to  lead 
the  old  skate  to  water  when  we  all  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse 
galloping  on  the  road. 

"It's  a  light  hoss,"  said  somebody  after  a  moment, 
meaning  a  horse  without  a  burden. 

We  nodded  and  resumed  our  occupation.  A  stray  horse 
coming  in  to  water  was  nothing  strange  or  unusual.  But 
an  instant  later,  stirrups  swinging,  reins  flapping,  up 
dashed  my  own  horse,  Tiger. 


68 


CHAPTER  X 

All  this  being  beyond  me,  and  then  some,  I  proceeded 
methodically  to  carry  out  my  complicated  plan;  which  was, 
it  will  be  remembered,  to  eat  supper  and  then  to  go  and 
see  about  it  in  person.  I  performed  the  first  part  of  this 
to  my  entire  satisfaction  but  not  to  that  of  the  rest.  They 
accused  me  of  unbecoming  secrecy;  only  they  expressed  it 
differently.  That  did  not  worry  me,  and  in  due  time  I 
made  my  escape.  At  the  corral  I  picked  out  a  good  horse, 
one  that  I  had  brought  from  the  Gila,  that  would  stay  tied 
indefinitely  without  impatience.  Then  I  lighted  me  a 
cigarette  and  jogged  up  the  road.  I  carried  with  me  a  little 
grub,  my  six-gun,  the  famous  black  bag,  and  an  entirely 
empty  head. 

The  night  was  only  moderately  dark,  for  while  there  was 
no  moon  there  were  plenty  of  those  candle-like  desert  stars. 
The  little  twinkling  lights  of  the  Box  Springs  dropped  astern 
like  lamps  on  a  shore.  By  and  by  I  turned  off  the  road  and 
made  a  wide  detour  down  the  sacatone  bottoms,  for  I  had 
still  some  sense;  and  roads  were  a  little  too  obvious.  The 
reception  committee  that  had  taken  charge  of  my  little 
friend  might  be  expecting  another  visitor — me.  This 
brought  my  approach  to  the  blank  side  of  the  ranch  where 
were  the  willow  trees  and  the  irrigating  ditch.  I  rode  up  as 
dose  as  I  thought  I  ought  to.  Then  I  tied  my  horse  to  a 

69 


THE    KILLER 

prominent  lone  Joshua-tree  that  would  be  easy  to  find, 
unstrapped  the  black  bag,  and  started  off.  The  black  bag, 
however,  bothered  me;  so  after  some  thought  I  broke  the 
lock  with  a  stone  and  investigated  the  contents,  mainly  by 
feel.  There  were  a  lot  of  clothes  and  toilet  articles  and 
such  junk,  and  a  number  of  undetermined  hard  things  like 
round  wooden  boxes.  Finally  I  withdrew  to  the  shelter  of 
a  barranca  where  I  could  light  matches.  Then  I  had  no  dif- 
ficulty in  identifying  a  nice  compact  little  hypodermic  out- 
fit, which  I  slipped  into  a  pocket.  I  then  deposited  the 
bag  in  a  safe  place  where  I  could  find  it  easily. 

Leaving  my  horse  I  approached  the  ranch  under  cover 
of  the  willows.  Yes,  I  remembered  this  time  that  I  left 
tracks,  but  I  did  not  care.  My  idea  was  to  get  some  sort 
of  decisive  action  before  morning.  Once  through  the 
willows  I  crept  up  close  to  the  walls.  They  were  twelve  or 
fifteen  feet  high,  absolutely  smooth;  and  with  one  exception 
broken  only  by  the  long,  narrow  loopholes  or  transoms 
I  have  mentioned  before.  The  one  exception  was  a  small 
wicket  gate  or  door.  I  remembered  the  various  sorties 
with  torches  after  the  chirping  frogs,  and  knew  that  by  this 
opening  the  hunting  party  had  emerged.  This  and  the 
big  main  gate  were  the  only  entrances  to  the  enclosure. 

I  retired  to  the  vicinity  of  the  willows  and  uttered  the 
cry  of  the  barred  owl.  After  ten  seconds  I  repeated  it,  and 
so  continued.  My  only  regret  was  that  I  could  not  chirp 
convincingly  like  a  frog.  I  saw  a  shadow  shift  suddenly 
through  one  of  the  transoms,  and  at  once  glided  to  the  wall 
near  the  little  door.  After  a  moment  or  so  it  opened  to 
emit  Old  Man  Hooper  and  another  bulkier  figure  which 

70 


THE    KILLER 

I  imagined  to  be  that  of  Ramon.  Both  were  armed  with 
shotguns.  Suddenly  it  came  to  me  that  I  was  lucky  not 
to  have  been  able  to  chirp  convincingly  like  a  frog.  They 
hunted  frogs  with  torches  and  in  a  crowd.  Those  two 
carried  no  light  and  they  were  so  intent  on  making  a  sneak 
on  the  willows  and  the  supposititious  owl  that  I,  flattened 
in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  easily  escaped  their  notice.  I 
slipped  inside  the  doorway. 

This  brought  me  into  a  narrow  passage  between  two 
buildings.  The  o&er  end  looked  into  the  interior  court. 
A  careful  reconnaissance  showed  no  one  in  sight,  so  I  walked 
boldly  along  the  verandah  in  the  direction  of  the  girPs 
room.  Her  note  had  said  she  was  constantly  guarded;  but 
I  could  see  no  one  in  sight,  and  I  had  to  take  a  chance  some- 
where. Two  seconds'  talk  would  do  me:  I  wanted  to  know 
in  which  of  the  numerous  rooms  the  old  man  slept.  I  had  a 
hunch  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  share  that  room  with  him. 
What  to  do  then  I  left  to  the  hunch. 

But  when  I  was  half  way  down  the  verandah  I  heard  the 
wicket  door  slammed  shut.  The  owl  hunters  had  returned 
more  quickly  than  I  had  anticipated.  Running  as  lightly 
as  possible  I  darted  down  the  verandah  and  around  the 
corner  of  the  left  wing.  This  brought  me  into  a  narrow 
little  garden  strip  between  the  main  house  and  the  wall 
dividing  the  court  from  the  corrals  and  stable  yards. 
Footsteps  followed  me  but  stopped.  A  hand  tried  the  door 
knob  to  the  corner  room. 

"Nothing,"  I  heard  Hooper 's  voice  replying  to  a  question. 
"Nothing  at  all.  Go  to  sleep." 

The  fragrant  smell  of  Mexican  tobacco  reached  my  nos- 


THE    KILLER 

trils.    After   a  moment   Ramon — it  was  he — resumed  a 
conversation  in  Spanish: 

"I  do  not  know,  seiior,  who  the  man  was.  I  could  but 
listen;  it  was  not  well  to  inquire  nor  to  show  too  much 

interest.    His  name,  yes;  Jim  Starr,  but  who  he  is "    I 

could  imagine  the  shrug.     "It  is  of  no  importance." 

"It  is  of  importance  that  the  other  man  still  lives,"  broke 
in  Hooper's  harsher  voice.  "I  will  not  have  it,  I  say!  Are 
you  sure  of  it?" 

"I  saw  him.  And  I  saw  his  horse  at  the  Sefior  Meigs. 
It  was  the  brown  that  bucks  badly,  so  I  cut  the  quarter 
straps  of  his  saddle.  It  might  be  that  we  have  luck;  I  do 
not  count  on  it.  But  rest  your  mind  easy,  senor,  it  shall 
be  arranged." 

"It  better  be." 

"But  there  is  more,  senor.  The  seiior  will  remember  a 
man  who  rode  in  races  for  him  many  years  ago,  one  named 
Artie " 

"Brower!"  broke  in  Hooper.     "What  about  him?" 

"He  is  in  town.    He  arrived  yesterday  afternoon." 

Hooper  ejaculated  something. 

"And  more,  he  is  all  day  and  all  night  with  this  Sanborn." 

Hooper  swore  fluently  in  English. 

"Look,  Ramon ! "  he  ordered,  vehemently.  "  It  is  necessary 
to  finish  this  Sanborn  at  once,  without  delay." 

"Bueno,  senor." 

"It  must  not  go  over  a  single  day." 

"Haste  makes  risk,  seiior." 

"The  risk  must  be  run." 

senor.    And  also  this  Artie?" 
72 


THE    KILLER 

"No!  no!  no!"  hastened  Hooper.  "Guard  him  as 
your  life!  But  send  a  trusty  man  for  him  to-morrow  with 
the  buckboard.  He  comes  to  see  me,  in  answer  to  my 
invitation." 

"And  if  he  will  not  come,  sefior?"  inquired  Ramon's 
quiet  voice. 

"Why  should  he  not  come?" 

"He  has  been  much  with  Sanborn." 

"It's  necessary  that  he  come,"  replied  Hooper,  emphasiz- 
ing each  word. 

"Bueno,  sefior." 

"Who  is  to  be  on  guard?" 

"Cortinez,  senor." 

"I  will  send  him  at  once.  Do  me  the  kindness  to  watch 
for  a  moment  until  I  send  him.  Here  is  the  key;  give  it  to 
him.  It  shall  be  but  a  moment." 

"Bueno,  senor,"  replied  Ramon. 

He  leaned  against  the  corner  of  the  house.  I  could  see  the 
half  of  his  figure  against  the  sky  and  the  dim  white  of  the  walls. 

The  night  was  very  still,  as  always  at  this  ranch.  There 
was  not  even  a  breeze  to  create  a  rustle  in  the  leaves.  I 
was  obliged  to  hold  rigidly  motionless,  almost  to  hush  my 
breathing,  while  the  figure  bulked  large  against  the  white- 
washed wall.  But  my  eyes,  wide  to  the  dimness,  took  in 
every  detail  of  my  surroundings.  Near  me  stood  a  water 
barrel.  If  I  could  get  a  spring  from  that  water  barrel  I 
could  catch  one  of  the  heavy  projecting  beams  of  the  roof. 

After  an  apparently  interminable  interval  the  sound  of 
footsteps  became  audible,  and  a  moment  later  Ramon 
moved  to  meet  his  relief.  I  seized  the  opportunity  of  their 

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THE    KILLER 

conversation  and  ascended  to  the  roof.  It  proved  to  be 
easy,  although  the  dried-out  old  beam  to  which  for  a  mo- 
ment I  swung  creaked  outrageously.  Probably  it  sounded 
louder  to  me  than  the  actual  fact.  I  took  off  my  boots  and 
moved  cautiously  to  where  I  could  look  down  into  the 
court.  Ramon  and  his  companion  were  still  talking  under 
the  verandah,  so  I  could  not  see  them;  but  I  waited  until  I 
heard  one  of  them  move  away.  Then  I  went  to  seat  myself 
on  the  low  parapet  and  think  things  over. 

The  man  below  me  had  the  key  to  the  girl's  room.  If  I 
could  get  the  key  I  could  accomplish  the  first  step  of  my 
plan — indeed  the  only  step  I  had  determined  upon.  The 
exact  method  of  getting  the  key  would  have  to  develop. 
In  the  meantime,  I  gave  passing  wonder  to  the  fact,  as 
developed  by  the  conversation  between  Hooper  and  Ramon, 
that  Brower  was  not  at  the  ranch  and  had  not  been  heard 
of  at  the  ranch.  Where  had  Tiger  dumped  him,  and  where 
now  was  he  lying?  I  keenly  regretted  the  loss  of  a  possible 
ally;  and,  much  to  my  astonishment,  I  found  within  myself 
a  little  regret  for  the  man  himself. 

The  thought  of  the  transom  occurred  to  me.  I  tiptoed 
over  to  that  side  and  looked  down.  The  opening  was  about 
five  feet  below  the  parapet.  After  a  moment's  thought  I 
tied  a  bit  of  stone  from  the  coping  in  the  end  of  my  silk 
bandana  and  lowered  it  at  arm's  length.  By  swinging  it 
gently  back  and  forth  I  determined  that  the  transom  was 
open.  With  the  stub  of  the  pencil  every  cowboy  carried 
to  tally  with  I  scribbled  a  few  words  on  an  envelope  which  I 
wrapped  about  the  bit  of  coping.  Something  to  the  effect 
that  I  was  there,  and  expected  to  gain  entrance  to  her  room 

74 


THE    KILLER 

later,  and  to  be  prepared.  Then  I  lowered  my  contraption, 
caused  it  to  tap  gently  a  dozen  times  on  the  edge  of  the 
transom,  and  finally  swung  it  with  a  rather  nice  accuracy  to 
fly,  bandana  and  all,  through  the  opening.  After  a  short 
interval  of  suspense  I  saw  the  reflection  of  a  light  and  so 
knew  my  message  had  been  received. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  now  but  return  to  a  point  of 
observation.  On  my  way  I  stubbed  my  stockinged  foot 
against  a  stone  metate  or  mortar  in  which  Indians  and 
Mexicans  make  their  flour.  The  heavy  pestle  was  there. 
I  annexed  it.  Dropped  accurately  from  the  height  of  the 
roof  it  would  make  a  very  pretty  weapon.  The  trouble, 
of  course,  lay  in  that  word  " accurately." 

But  I  soon  found  the  fates  playing  into  my  hands.  At 
the  end  of  a  quarter  hour  the  sentry  emerged  from  under 
the  verandah,  looked  up  at  the  sky,  yawned,  stretched,  and 
finally  sat  down  with  his  back  against  the  wall  of  the  build- 
ing opposite.  Inside  of  ten  minutes  he  was  sound  asleep 
and  snoring  gently. 

I  wanted  nothing  better  than  that.  The  descent  was  a 
little  difficult  to  accomplish  noiselessly,  as  I  had  to 
drop  some  feet,  but  I  managed  it.  After  crouching  for  a 
moment  to  see  if  the  slight  sounds  had  aroused  him,  I 
crept  along  the  wall  to  where  he  sat.  The  stone  pestle  of 
the  metate  I  had  been  forced  to  leave  behind  me,  but  I  had 
the  heavy  barrel  of  my  gun,  and  I  was  going  to  take  no 
chances.  I  had  no  compunctions  as  to  what  I  did  to  any 
one  of  this  pack  of  mad  dogs.  Cautiously  I  drew  it  from 
its  holster  and  poised  it  to  strike.  At  that  instant  I  was 
seized  and  pinioned  from  behind. 

75 


CHAPTER  XI 

I  did  not  struggle.  I  would  have  done  so  if  I  had  been 
able,  but  I  was  caught  in  a  grip  so  skillful  that  the  smallest 
move  gave  me  the  most  exquisite  pain.  At  that  time  I  had 
not  even  heard  the  words  jiu  jitsu,  but  I  have  looked  them 
up  since.  Cortinez,  the  sleepy  sentry,  without  changing 
his  position,  had  opened  his  eyes  and  was  grinning  at  me. 

I  was  forced  to  my  feet  and  marched  to  the  open  door  of 
the  corner  room.  There  I  was  released,  and  turned  around 
to  face  Hooper  himself.  The  old  man's  face  was  twisted 
in  a  sardonic  half-snarl  that  might  pass  for  a  grin;  but  there 
was  no  smile  in  his  unblinking  wildcat  eyes.  There  seemed 
to  be  trace  neither  of  the  girl  nor  the  girl's  occupation. 

"Thank  you  for  your  warning  of  your  intended  visit," 
said  Hooper  in  silky  tones,  indicating  my  bandana  which 
lay  on  the  table.  "And  now  may  I  inquire  to  what  I  owe 
the  honour  of  this  call?  Or  it  may  be  that  the  visit  was  not 
intended  for  me  at  all.  Mistake  in  the  rooms,  perhaps.  I 
often  shift  and  change  my  quarters,  and  those  of  my  house- 
hold; especially  if  I  suspect  I  have  some  reason  for  doing  so. 
It  adds  interest  to  an  otherwise  uneventful  life." 

He  was  eying  me  sardonically,  evidently  gloating  over  the 
situation  as  he  found  it. 

"How  did  you  get  on  that  roof?  Who  let  you  inside  the 
walls?  "  he  demanded,  abruptly. 

76 


THE    KILLER 

I  merely  smiled  at  him. 

"That  we  can  determine  later,"  he  observed,  resuming 
command  of  himself. 

I  measured  my  chances,  and  found  them  at  present  a 
minus  quantity.  The  old  man  was  separated  from  me  by 
a  table,  and  he  held  my  own  revolver  ready  for  instant  use. 
So  I  stood  tight  and  waited. 

The  room  was  an  almost  exact  replica  of  the  one  in  which 
I  had  spent  the  night  so  short  a  time  before;  the  same  long 
narrow  transom  near  the  ceiling,  the  same  barred  windows 
opening  on  the  court,  the  same  closet  against  the  blank 
wall.  Hooper  had  evidently  inhabited  it  for  some  days, 
for  it  was  filled  with  his  personal  belongings.  Indeed  he 
must  have  moved  in  en  bloc  when  his  ward  had  been  moved 
out,  for  none  of  the  furnishings  showed  the  feminine  touch, 
and  several  articles  could  have  belonged  only  to  the  old  man 
personally.  Of  such  was  a  small  iron  safe  in  one  corner  and 
a  tall  old-fashioned  desk  crammed  with  papers. 

But  if  I  deckled  overt  action  unwise  at  this  moment,  I 
decidedly  went  into  action  the  next.  Hooper  whistled  and 
four  Mexicans  appeared  with  ropes.  Somehow  I  knew  if 
they  once  hog-tied  me  I  would  never  get  another  chance. 
Better  dead  now  than  helpless  in  the  morning,  for  what  that 
old  buzzard  might  want  of  me. 

One  of  them  tossed  a  loop  at  me.  I  struck  it  aside  and 
sailed  in. 

It  had  always  been  my  profound  and  contemptuous  belief 
that  I  could  lick  any  four  Mexicans.  Now  I  had  to  take 
that  back.  I  could  not.  But  I  gave  the  man  argument, 
and  by  the  time  they  had  my  elbows  lashed  behind  me  and 

77 


THE     KILLER 

my  legs  tied  to  the  legs  of  one  of  those  big  solid  chairs  they 
like  to  name  as  "Mission  style,"  I  had  marked  them  up 
and  torn  their  pretty  clothes  and  smashed  a  lot  of  junk 
around  the  place  and  generally  got  them  so  mad  they  would 
have  knifed  me  in  a  holy  second  if  it  had  not  been  for  Old 
Man  Hooper.  The  latter  held  up  the  lamp  where  it  wouldn't 
get  smashed  and  admonished  them  in  no  uncertain  terms 
that  he  wanted  me  alive  and  comparatively  undamaged. 
Oh,  sure!  they  mussed  me  up,  too.  I  wasn't  very  pretty, 
either. 

The  bravos  withdrew  muttering  curses,  as  the  story  books 
say;  and  after  Hooper  had  righted  the  table  and  stuck  the 
lamp  on  it,  and  taken  a  good  look  at  my  bonds,  he  withdrew 
also. 

Most  of  my  time  until  the  next  thing  occurred  was  oc- 
cupied in  figuring  on  all  the  things  that  might  happen 
to  me.  One  thing  I  acknowledged  to  myself  right  off  the 
reel:  the  Mexicans  had  sure  trussed  me  up  for  further  or- 
ders! I  could  move  my  hands,  but  I  knew  enough  of 
ropes  and  ties  to  realize  that  my  chances  of  getting  free  were 
exactly  nothing.  My  plans  had  gone  perfectly  up  to  this 
moment.  I  had  schemed  to  get  inside  the  ranch  and  into 
Old  Man  Hooper's  room;  and  here  I  was!  What  more 
could  a  man  ask? 

The  next  thing  occurred  so  soon,  however,  that  I  hadn't 
had  time  to  think  of  more  than  ten  per  cent,  of  the  things 
that  might  happen  to  me.  The  outside  door  opened  to 
admit  Hooper,  followed  by  the  girl.  He  stood  aside  in  the 
most  courtly  fashion. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "here  is  Mr.  Sanborn,  who  has  come 

78 


THE    KILLER 

to  call  on  you.  You  remember  Mr.  Sanborn,  I  am  sure. 
You  met  him  at  dinner;  and  besides,  I  believe  you  had  some 
correspondence  with  him,  did  you  not?  He  has  taken  so 
much  trouble,  so  very  much  trouble  to  see  you  that  I  think 
it  a  great  pity  his  wish  should  not  be  fulfilled.  Won't  you 
sit  down  here,  my  dear?  " 

She  was  staring  at  me,  her  eyes  gone  wide  with  wonder 
and  horror.  Half  thinking  she  took  her  seat  as  indicated. 
Instantly  the  old  man  had  bound  her  elbows  at  the  back 
and  had  lashed  her  to  the  chair.  After  the  first  start  of 
surprise  she  made  no  resistance. 

"There,"  said  Hooper,  straightening  up  after  the  ac- 
complishment of  this  task;  "now  I'm  going  to  leave  you  to 
your  visit.  You  can  talk  it  all  over.  Tell  him  all  you 
please,  my  dear.  And  you,  sir,  tell  her  all  you  know.  I 
think  I  can  arrange  so  your  confidences  will  go  no  further." 

For  the  first  time  I  heard  him  laugh,  a  high,  uncertain 
cackle.  The  girl  said  nothing,  but  she  stared  at  him  with 
level,  blazing  eyes.  Also  for  the  first  time  I  began  to  take 
an  interest  in  her. 

"Do  you  object  to  smoking?"  I  asked  her,  suddenly. 

She  blinked  and  recovered. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  answered. 

"Well  then,  old  man,  be  a  sport.  Give  me  the  makings. 
I  can  get  my  hands  to  my  mouth." 

The  old  man  transferred  his  baleful  eyes  on  me.  Then 
without  saying  a  word  he  placed  in  my  hands  a  box  of 
tailor-made  cigarettes  and  a  dozen  matches. 

"Until  morning,"  he  observed,  his  hand  on  the  door  knob. 
He  inclined  in  a  most  courteous  fashion,  first  to  the  one  of 

79 


THE    KILLER 

us,  then  to  the  other,  and  went  out.  He  did  not  lock  the 
door  after  him,  and  I  could  hear  him  addressing  Cortinez 
outside.  The  girl  started  to  speak,  but  I  waved  my 
shackled  hand  at  her  for  silence.  By  straining  my  ears  I 
could  just  make  out  what  was  said. 

"I  am  going  to  bed,"  Hooper  said.  "It  is  not  necessary 
to  stand  guard.  You  may  get  your  blankets  and  sleep  on 
the  verandah." 

After  the  old  man's  footsteps  had  died,  I  turned  back  to 
the  girl  opposite  me  and  looked  her  over  carefully.  My 
first  impression  of  meekness  I  revised.  She  did  not  look 
to  be  one  bit  meek.  Her  lips  were  compressed,  her  nostrils 
wide,  her  level  eyes  unsubdued.  A  person  of  sense,  I  said 
to  myself,  well  balanced,  who  has  learned  when  it  is  useless 
to  kick  against  the  pricks,  but  who  has  not  necessarily  on 
that  account  forever  renounced  all  kicking.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  she  must  have  had  to  be  pretty  thoroughly  con- 
vinced before  she  had  come  to  this  frame  of  mind.  When 
she  saw  that  I  had  heard  all  I  wanted  of  the  movements 
outside,  she  spoke  hurriedly  in  her  low,  sweet  voice: 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  distressed !  This  is  all  my  doing !  I  should 
have  known  better " 

"Now,"  I  interrupted  her,  decisively,  "let's  get  down  to 
cases.  You  had  nothing  to  do  with  this;  nothing  what- 
ever. I  visited  this  ranch  the  first  time  out  of  curiosity, 
and  to-night  because  I  knew  that  I'd  have  to  hit  first  to 
save  my  own  life.  You  had  no  influence  on  me  in  either  case. ' ' 

"You  thought  this  was  my  room — I  wrote  you  it  was," 
she  countered,  swiftly. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  solely  and  simply  that  I  might  find 

80 


THE    KILLER 

out  how  to  get  at  Hooper.     This  is  all  my  fault;  and  we're 
going  to  cut  out  the  self-accusations  and  get  down  to  cases." 

I  afterward  realized  that  all  this  was  somewhat  incon- 
siderate and  ungallant  and  slightly  humiliating;  I  should 
have  taken  the  part  of  the  knight-errant  rescuing  the  damsel 
in  distress,  but  at  that  moment  only  the  direct  essentials 
entered  my  mind. 

"Very  well,"  she  assented  in  her  repressed  tones. 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  listening  to  what  we  say ;  or  has  some- 
body listening?  " 

"I  am  positive  not." 

"Why?" 

"  I  lived  in  this  room  for  two  months,  and  I  know  every 
inch  of  it." 

"He  might  have  some  sort  of  a  concealed  listening  hole 
somewhere,  just  the  same." 

" I  am  certain  he  has  not.     The  walls  are  two  feet  thick." 

"All  right;  let  it  go  at  that.  Now  let's  see  where  we 
stand.  In  the  first  place,  how  do  you  dope  this  out?" 

"What  do  you  mean? " 

"What  does  he  intend  to  do  with  us?" 

She  looked  at  me  straight,  eye  to  eye. 

"In  the  morning  he  will  kill  you — unless  you  can  con- 
trive something." 

"Cheering  thought." 

"There  is  no  sense  in  not  facing  situations  squarely.  If 
there  is  a  way  out,  that  is  the  only  method  by  which  it  may 
be  found." 

"True,"  I  agreed,  my  admiration  growing.  "And  your- 
self; will  he  kill  you,  too?  " 

81 


THE    KILLER 

"He  will  not.  He  does  not  dare!"  she  cried,  proudly, 
with  a  flash  of  the  eyes. 

I  was  not  so  sure  of  that,  but  there  was  no  object  in  saying 
so. 

"Why  has  he  tied  you  in  that  chair,  then,  along  with  the 
condemned?"  I  asked. 

"You  will  understand  better  if  I  tell  you  who  I  am." 

"You  are  his  deceased  partner's  daughter;  and  everybody 
thinks  you  are  in  Europe,"  I  stated. 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  know  that?  But  no  matter; 
it  is  true.  I  embarked  three  months  ago  on  the  Limited 
for  New  York  intending,  as  you  say,  to  go  on  a  long  trip 
to  Europe.  My  father  and  I  had  been  alone  in  the  world. 
We  were  very  fond  of  each  other.  I  took  no  companion, 
nor  did  I  intend  to.  I  felt  quite  independent  and  able  to 
take  care  of  myself.  At  the  last  moment  Mr.  Hooper 
boarded  the  train.  That  was  quite  unexpected.  He  was 
on  his  way  to  the  ranch.  He  persuaded  me  to  stop  over 
for  a  few  days  to  decide  some  matters.  You  know,  since 
my  father's  death  I  am  half  owner." 

"Whole  owner,"  I  murmured. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Nothing.  Go  ahead.  Sure  you  don't  mind  my  smok- 
ing? "  I  lit  one  of  the  tailor-mades  and  settled  back.  Even 
my  inexperienced  youth  recognized  the  necessity  of  relief 
this  long-continued  stubborn  repression  must  feel.  My 
companion  had  as  yet  told  me  nothing  I  did  not  already 
know  or  guess;  but  I  knew  it  would  do  her  good  to  talk, 
and  I  might  learn  something  valuable. 

"We  came  out  to  the  ranch,  and  talked  matters  over 

82 


THE    KILLER 

quite  normally;  but  when  it  came  time  for  my  departure, 
I  was  not  permitted  to  leave.  For  some  unexplained  reason 
I  was  a  prisoner,  confined  absolutely  to  the  four  walls  of 
this  enclosure.  I  was  guarded  night  and  day;  and  I  soon 
found  I  was  to  be  permitted  conversation  with  two  men 
only,  Mexicans  named  Ramon  and  Andreas." 

"They  are  his  right  and  left  hand,"  I  commented. 

"  So  I  found.  You  may  imagine  I  did  not  submit  to  this 
until  I  found  I  had  to.  Then  I  made  up  my  mind  that  the 
only  possible  thing  to  do  was  to  acquiesce,  to  observe,  and 
to  wait  my  chance." 

"You  were  right  enough  there.  Why  do  you  figure  he 
did  this?" 

"I  don't  know!"  she  cried  with  a  flash  of  thwarted  de- 
spair. "I  have  racked  my  brains,  but  I  can  find  no  mo- 
tive. He  has  not  asked  me  for  a  thing;  he  has  not  even 
asked  me  a  question.  Unless  he's  stark  crazy,  I  cannot 
make  it  out!" 

"He  may  be  that,"  I  suggested. 

"He  may  be;  and  yet  I  doubt  it  somehow.  I  don't  know 
why;  but  I  feel  that  he  is  sane  enough.  He  is  inconceiv- 
ably cruel  and  domineering.  He  will  not  tolerate  a  living 
thing  about  the  place  that  will  not  or  cannot  take  orders 
from  him.  He  kills  the  flies,  the  bees,  the  birds,  the  frogs, 
because  they  are  not  his.  I  believe  he  would  kill  a  man  as 
quickly  who  stood  out  even  for  a  second  against  him  here. 
To  that  extent  I  believe  he  is  crazy:  a  sort  of  monomania. 
But  not  otherwise.  That  is  why  I  say  he  will  kill  you;  I 
really  believe  he  would  do  it." 

"So  do  I,"  I  agreed,  grimly.    "However,  let's  drop  that 

83 


THE    KILLER 

for  right  now.  Do  you  know  a  man  named  Brower,  Artie 
Brower?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  of  him.    Why?  " 

"  Never  mind  for  a  minute.  I've  just  had  a  great  thought 
strike  me.  Just  let  me  alone  a  few  moments  while  I  work 
it  out." 

I  lighted  a  second  cigarette  from  the  butt  of  the  first  and 
fell  into  a  study.  Cortinez  breathed  heavily  outside. 
Otherwise  the  silence  was  as  dead  as  the  blackness  of  the 
night.  The  smoke  from  my  cigarettes  floated  lazily  until 
it  reached  the  influence  of  the  hot  air  from  the  lamp;  then 
it  shot  upward  toward  the  ceiling.  The  girl  watched  me 
from  under  her  level  brows,  always  with  that  air  of  con- 
trolled restraint  I  found  so  admirable. 

"I've  got  it,"  I  said  at  last,  "— or  at  least  I  think  I  have. 
Now  listen  to  me,  and  believe  what  I've  got  to  say.  Here 
are  the  facts :  first,  your  father  and  Hooper  split  partnership 
a  while  back.  Hooper  took  his  share  entirely  in  cash;  your 
father  took  his  probably  part  in  cash,  but  certainly  all  of 
the  ranch  and  cattle.  Get  that  clear?  Hooper  owns  no 
part  of  the  ranch  and  cattle.  All  right.  Your  father  dies 
before  the  papers  relating  to  this  agreement  are  recorded. 
Nobody  knew  of  those  papers  except  your  father  and 
Hooper.  So  if  Hooper  were  to  destroy  those  papers,  he'd 
still  have  the  cash  that  had  been  paid  him,  and  an  equal 
share  in  the  property.  That  plain?  " 

"Perfectly,"  she  replied,  composedly.  "Why  didn't  he 
destroy  them?" 

"Because  they  had  been  stolen  by  this  man  Brower  I 
asked  you  about — an  ex-jockey  of  Hooper's.  Brower  held 

84 


THE    KILLER 

them  for  blackmail.  Unless  Hooper  came  through  Brower 
would  record  the  papers." 

"Where  do  I  come  in?" 

"Easy.  I'm  coming  to  that.  But  answer  me  this: 
who  would  be  your  heir  in  case  you  died?  " 

"Why— I  don't  know!" 

"  Have  you  any  kin?  " 

"Not  a  soul!" 

"Did  you  ever  make  a  will?" 

"I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing!" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  If  you  were  to  die  your  interest  in 
this  property  would  go  to  Hooper." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?  I  thought  it  would  go 
to  the  state." 

"I'm  guessing,"  I  acknowledged,  "but  I  believe  I'm 
guessing  straight.  A  lot  of  these  old  Arizona  partnerships 
were  made  just  that  way.  Life  was  uncertain  out  here. 
I'll  bet  the  old  original  partnership  between  your  father 
and  Hooper  provides  that  in  case  of  the  extinction  of  one 
line,  the  other  will  inherit.  It's  a  very  common  form  of 
partnership  in  a  new  country  like  this.  You  can  see  for 
yourself  it's  a  sensible  thing  to  provide." 

"You  may  be  right,"  she  commented.     "Go  on." 

"You  told  me  a  while  ago  it  was  best  to  face  any  situa- 
tion squarely.  Now  brace  up  and  face  this.  You  said  a 
while  ago  that  Hooper  would  not  dare  kill  you.  That  is 
true  for  the  moment.  But  there  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind 
that  he  has  intended  from  the  first  to  kill  you,  because  by 
that  he  would  get  possession  of  the  whole  property." 

"I  cannot  believe  it!"  she  cried. 


THE    KILLER 

"Isn't  the  incentive  enough?  Think  carefully,  and 
answer  honestly:  don't  you  think  him  capable  of  it?" 

"Yes — I  suppose  so,"  she  admitted,  reluctantly,  after  a 
moment.  She  gathered  herself  as  after  a  shock.  "Why 
hasn't  he  done  so?  Why  has  he  waited?" 

I  told  her  of  the  situation  as  it  concerned  Brower.  While 
the  dissolution  of  partnership  papers  still  existed  and  might 
still  be  recorded,  such  a  murder  would  be  useless.  For 
naturally  the  dissolution  abrogated  the  old  partnership 
agreement.  The  girl's  share  of  the  property  would,  at  her 
demise  intestate,  go  to  the  state.  That  is,  provided  the 
new  papers  were  ever  recorded. 

"Then  I  am  safe  until ?"  she  began. 

"Until  he  negotiates  or  otherwise  settles  with  Brower. 
Until  he  has  destroyed  all  evidence." 

"Then  everything  seems  to  depend  on  this  Brower," 
she  said,  knitting  her  brows  anxiously.  "Where  is  he?" 

I  did  not  answer  this  last  question.  My  eyes  were  riveted 
on  the  door  knob  which  was  slowly,  almost  imperceptibly, 
turning.  Cortinez  continued  to  breathe  heavily  in  sleep 
outside.  The  intruder  was  evidently  at  great  pains  not  to 
awaken  the  guard.  A  fraction  of  an  inch  at  a  time  the 
door  opened.  A  wild-haired,  wild-eyed  head  inserted  itself 
cautiously  through  the  crack.  The  girl's  eyes  widened 
in  surprise  and,  I  imagine,  a  little  in  fear.  I  began  to 
laugh,  silently,  so  as  not  to  disturb  Cortinez.  Mirth  over- 
came me;  the  tears  ran  down  my  cheeks. 

"It's  so  darn  complete!"  I  gasped,  answering  the  girl's 
horrified  look  of  inquiry.  "Miss  Emory,  allow  me  to  pre- 
sent Mr.  Artie  Brower!" 

86 


CHAPTER  XII 

Brower  entered  the  room  quickly  but  very  quietly,  and  at 
once  came  to  me.  His  eyes  were  staring,  his  eyelids 
twitched,  his  hands  shook.  I  recognized  the  symptoms. 

"Have  you  got  it?  Have  you  got  it  with  you? "  he  whis- 
pered, feverishly. 

"It's  all  right.  I  can  fix  you  up.  Untie  me  first,"  I 
replied. 

He  began  to  fumble  with  the  knots  of  my  bonds  too 
hastily  and  impatiently  for  effectiveness.  I  was  trying  to 
stoop  over  far  enough  to  see  what  he  was  doing  when  my 
eye  caught  the  shadow  of  a  moving  figure  outside.  An 
instant  later  Tim  Westmore,  the  English  groom  attached  to 
the  Morgan  stallion,  came  cautiously  through  the  door, 
which  he  closed  behind  him.  I  attempted  unobtrusively 
to  warn  Brower,  but  he  only  looked  up,  nodded  vaguely, 
and  continued  his  fumbling  efforts  to  free  me.  Westmore 
glanced  at  us  all  curiously,  but  went  at  once  to  the  big  win- 
dows, which  he  proceeded  to  swing  shut.  Then  he  came 
over  to  us,  pushed  Brower  one  side,  and  most  expeditiously 
untied  the  knots.  I  stood  up  stre telling  in  the  luxury  of 
freedom,  then  turned  to  perform  a  like  office  for  Miss 
Emory.  But  Brower  was  by  now  frantic.  He  seized  my 
arm  and  fairly  shook  me,  big  as  I  was,  in  the  urgence  of  his 
desire.  He  was  rapidly  losing  all  control  and  caution. 

87 


THE    KILLER 

"Let  him  have  it,  sir,"  urged  Westmore  in  a  whisper. 
"I'll  free  the  young  lady." 

I  gave  B rower  the  hypodermic  case.  He  ran  to  the  wash 
bowl  for  water.  During  the  process  of  preparation  he 
uttered  little  animal  sounds  under  his  breath.  When  the 
needle  had  sunk  home  he  lay  back  in  a  chair  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

In  the  meantime,  I  had  been  holding  a  whispered  colloquy 
with  Westmore. 

"He  sneaked  in  on  me  at  dark,  sir,"  he  told  me,  "on 
foot.  I  don't  know  how  he  got  in  without  being  seen. 
They'd  have  found  his  tracks  anyway  in  the  morning.  I 
don't  think  he  knew  quite  what  he  wanted  to  do.  Him 
and  me  were  old  pals,  and  he  wanted  to  ask  me  about  things. 
He  didn't  expect  to  stay,  I  fancy.  He  told  me  he  had  left 
his  horse  tied  a  mile  or  so  down  the  road.  Then  a  while 
back  orders  came  to  close  down,  air  tight.  We're  used  to 
such  orders.  Nobody  can  go  out  or  come  in,  you  under- 
stand. And  there  are  guards  placed.  That  made  him 
uneasy.  He  told  me  then  he  was  a  hop  fiend.  I've  seen 
them  before,  and  I  got  uneasy,  too.  If  he  came  to  the  worst 
I  might  have  to  tie  and  gag  him.  I  know  how  they  are." 

"Go  ahead,"  I  urged.    He  had  stopped  to  listen. 

"I  don't  like  that  Cortinez  being  so  handy  like  out  there," 
he  confessed. 

"Hooper  told  him  he  could  sleep.  He's  not  likely  to  pay 
attention  to  us.  Miss  Emory  and  I  have  been  talking  aloud." 

"I  hope  not.  Well,  then,  Ramon  came  by  and  stopped  to 
tfllk  to  me  for  a  minute.  I  had  to  hide  Artie  in  a  box-stall 
and  hope  to  God  he  kept  quiet.  He  wasn't  as  bad  as  he  is 

88 


THE    KILLER 

now.  Ramon  told  me  about  you  being  caught,  and  went 
on.  After  that  nothing  must  do  but  find  you.  He  thought 
you  might  have  his  dope.  He'd  have  gone  into  the  jaws  of 
hell  after  it.  So  I  came  along  to  keep  him  out  of  mischief." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  asked  the  girl,  who 
had  kicked  off  her  slippers  and  had  been  walking  a  few 
paces  to  and  fro. 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am.    We've  got  to  get  away." 

"We?" 

"You  mean  me,  too?  Yes,  ma'am!  I  have  stood  with 
the  doings  of  this  place  as  long  as  I  can  stand  them.  Artie 
has  told  me  some  other  things.  Are  you  here  of  your  free 
will,  ma'am?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"No,"  she  replied. 

"I  suspected  as  much.  I'm  through  with  the  whole  lot 
of  them." 

Brower  opened  his  eyes.    He  was  now  quite  calm. 

"Hooper  sold  the  Morgan  stallion,"  he  whispered,  smiled 
sardonically,  and  closed  his  eyes  again. 

"Without  telling  me  a  word  of  it!"  added  Tim  with  heat. 
"He  ain't  delivered  him  yet." 

"Well,  I  don't  blame  you.  Now  you'd  better  quietly 
sneak  back  to  your  quarters.  There  is  likely  to  be  trouble 
before  we  get  through.  You,  too,  Brower.  Nobody  knows 
you  are  here." 

Brower  opened  his  eyes  again. 

"I  can  get  out  of  this  place  now  I've  had  me  hop,"  said 
he,  decidedly.  "  Come  on,  let's  go." 

"We'll  all  go,"  I  agreed;  "but  let's  see  what  we  can  find 

here  first.  There  may  be  some  paper — or  something " 

89 


THE    KILLER 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  sort  of  papers?  Hadn't 
we  better  go  at  once?" 

"It  is  supposed  to  be  well  known  that  the  reason  Hooper 
isn't  assassinated  from  behind  a  bush  is  because  in  that 
case  his  killers  are  in  turn  to  assassinate  a  long  list  of  his 
enemies.  Only  nobody  is  sure:  just  as  nobody  is  really 
sure  that  he  has  killers  at  all.  You  can't  get  action  on  an 
uncertainty." 

She  nodded.     "I  can  understand  that." 

"If  we  could  get  proof  positive  it  would  be  no  trick  at  all 
to  raise  the  country." 

"What  sort  of  proof?" 

"Well,  I  mentioned  a  list.  I  don't  doubt  his  head  man- 
Ramon,  I  suppose,  the  one  he'd  trust  with  carrying  out 
such  a  job — must  have  a  list  of  some  sort.  He  wouldn't 
trust  to  memory." 

"And  he  wouldn't  trust  it  to  Ramon  until  after  he  was 
dead!"  said  the  girl  with  sudden  intuition.  "If  it  exists 
we'll  find  it  here." 

She  started  toward  the  paper-stuffed  desk,  but  I  stopped 
her. 

"More  likely  the  safe,"  said  I. 

Tim,  who  was  standing  near  it,  tried  the  handle. 

"It's  locked,"  he  whispered. 

I  fell  on  my  knees  and  began  to  fiddle  with  the  dial,  of 
course  in  vain.  Miss  Emory,  with  more  practical  decision 
of  character,  began  to  run  through  the  innumerable  bundles 
and  loose  papers  in  the  desk,  tossing  them  aside  as  they 
proved  unimportant  or  not  germane  to  the  issue.  I  had 
not  the  slightest  knowledge  of  the  constructions  of  safes 

90 


THE    KILLER 

but  whirled  the  knob  hopelessly  in  one  direction  or  another 
trying  to  listen  for  clicks,  as  somewhere  I  had  read  was  the 
thing  to  do.  As  may  be  imagined,  I  arrived  nowhere. 
Nor  did  the  girl.  We  looked  at  each  other  in  chagrin  at  last. 

"There  is  nothing  here  but  ranch  bills  and  accounts  and 
business  letters,"  she  confessed. 

I  merely  shook  my  head. 

At  this  moment  Brower,  whom  I  had  supposed  to  be 
sound  asleep,  opened  his  eyes. 

"Want  that  safe  open?"  he  asked,  drowsily. 

He  arose,  stretched,  and  took  his  place  beside  me  on  the 
floor.  His  head  cocked  one  side,  he  slowly  turned  the 
dials  with  the  tips  of  fingers  I  for  the  first  time  noticed 
were  long  and  slim  and  sensitive.  Twice  after  extended, 
delicate  manipulations  he  whirled  the  knob  impatiently 
and  took  a  fresh  start.  On  the  proverbial  third  trial  he 
turned  the  handle  and  the  door  swung  open.  He  arose 
rather  stiffly  from  his  knees,  resumed  his  place  in  the  arm- 
chair, and  again  closed  his  eyes. 

It  was  a  small  safe,  with  few  pigeon  holes.  A  number  of 
blue-covered  contracts  took  small  time  for  examination. 
There  were  the  usual  number  of  mine  certificates  not  valu- 
able enough  for  a  safe  deposit,  some  confidential  memoranda 
and  accounts  having  to  do  with  the  ranch. 

"Ah,  here  is  something!"  I  breathed  to  the  eager  audi- 
ence over  my  shoulder.  I  held  in  my  hands  a  heavy  manila 
envelope,  sealed,  inscribed  "Ramon.  (To  be  destroyed 
unopened.)" 

"Evidently  we  were  right:  Ramon  has  the  combina- 
tion and  is  to  be  executor,"  I  commented. 


THE    KILLER 

I  tore  open  the  envelope  and  extracted  from  it  another 
of  the  blue-covered  documents. 

"It's  a  copy,  unsigned,  of  that  last  agreement  with  your 
father,"  I  said,  after  a  disappointed  glance.  "It's  worth 
keeping,"  and  I  thrust  it  inside  my  shirt. 

But  this  particular  pigeon  hole  proved  to  be  a  mine. 
In  it  were  several  more  of  the  same  sort  of  envelope,  all 
sealed,  all  addressed  to  Ramon.  One  was  labelled  as  the 
Last  Will,  one  as  Inventory,  and  one  simply  as  Directions. 
This  last  had  a  further  warning  that  it  was  to  be  opened  only 
by  the  one  addressed.  I  determined  by  hasty  examination 
that  the  first  two  were  only  what  they  purported  to  be,  and 
turned  hopefully  to  a  perusal  of  the  last.  It  was  in  Spanish, 
and  dealt  at  great  length  with  the  disposition  and  manage- 
ment of  Hooper's  extensive  interests.  I  append  a  trans- 
lation of  the  portion  of  this  remarkable  document,  having 
to  do  with  our  case. 

"These  are  my  directions,"  it  began,  "as  to  the  matter 
of  which  we  have  many  times  spoken  together.  I  have 
many  enemies,  and  many  who  think  they  have  cause  to 
wish  my  death.  They  are  cowards  and  soft  and  I  do  not 
think  they  will  ever  be  sure  enough  to  do  me  harm.  I 
do  not  fear  them.  But  it  may  be  that  one  or  some  of 
them  will  find  it  in  their  souls  to  do  a  deed  against  me.  In 
that  case  I  shall  be  content,  for  neither  do  I  fear  the  devil. 
But  I  shall  be  content  only  if  you  follow  my  orders.  I  add 
here  a  list  of  my  enemies  and  of  those  who  have  cause  to 
wish  me  ill.  If  I  am  killed,  it  is  probable  that  some  one  of 
these  will  have  done  the  deed.  Therefore  they  must  all 
die.  You  must  see  to  it,  following  them  if  necessary  to  the 

92 


THE    KILLER 

ends  of  the  earth.  You  will  know  how;  and  what  means  to 
employ.  When  all  these  are  gone,  then  go  you  to  the  highest 
rock  on  the  southerly  pinnacle  of  Cochise's  Stronghold. 
Ten  paces  northwest  is  a  gray,  flat  slab.  If  you  lift  this 
slab  there  will  be  found  a  copper  box.  In  the  box  is  the 
name  of  a  man.  You  will  go  to  this  man  and  give  him  the 
copper  box  and  in  return  he  will  give  to  you  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  I  know  well,  my  Ramon,  that  your  hon- 
esty would  not  permit  you  to  seek  the  copper  box  before 
the  last  of  my  enemies  is  dead.  Nevertheless,  that  you 
may  admire  my  recourse,  I  have  made  an  arrangement. 
If  the  gray  slab  on  Cochise's  Stronghold  is  ever  disturbed 
before  the  whole  toll  is  paid,  you  will  die  very  suddenly  and 
unpleasantly.  I  know  well  that  you,  my  Ramon,  would 
not  disturb  it;  and  I  hope  for  your  sake  that  nobody 
else  will  do  so.  It  is  not  likely.  No  one  is  fool  enough  to 
climb  Cochise's  Stronghold  for  pleasure;  and  this  gray  slab 
is  one  among  many." 

At  this  time  I  did  not  read  carefully  the  above  cheerful 
document.  My  Spanish  was  good  enough,  but  took  time 
in  the  translating.  I  dipped  into  it  enough  to  determine 
that  it  was  what  we  wanted,  and  flipped  the  pages  to  come 
to  the  list  of  prospective  victims.  It  covered  two  sheets,  and 
a  glance  down  the  columns  showed  me  that  about  every  per- 
manent inhabitant  of  the  Soda  Springs  Valley  was  included. 
I  found  my  own  name  in  quite  fresh  ink  toward  the  last. 

"This  is  what  we  want,"  I  said  in  satisfaction,  rising  to  my 
feet.  I  sketched  in  a  few  words  the  purport  of  the  document. 

"Let  me  see  it,"  said  the  girl. 

I  handed  it  to  her.    She  began  to  examine  carefully  the 

93 


THE    KILLER 

list  of  names,  her  face  turning  paler  as  she  read.  Tim 
Westmore  looked  anxiously  over  her  shoulder.  Suddenly 
I  saw  his  face  congest  and  his  eyes  bulge. 

"Why!  why!"  he  gasped,  "I'm  there!  What've  I  ever 

done,  I  ask  you  that?  The  old "  he  choked,  at  a  loss 

and  groping.  Then  his  anger  flared  up.  "I've  always 
served  him  faithful  and  done  what  I  was  told,"  he  mut- 
tered, fiercely.  "  I'll  do  him  in  for  this ! " 

"I  am  here,"  observed  Miss  Emory. 

"Yes,  and  that  sot  in  the  chair!"  whispered  Tim,  fiercely. 

Again  Brower  proved  he  was  not  asleep  by  opening  one  eye. 

"Thanks  for  them  kind  words,"  said  he. 

"We've  got  to  get  out  of  here,"  stated  Tim  with  con- 
viction. 

"That  idea  just  got  through  your  thick  British  skull?" 
queried  Artie,  rousing  again. 

"I  wish  we  had  some  way  to  carry  the  young  lady — 
she  can't  walk,"  said  Westmore,  paying  no  attention. 

"I  have  my  horse  tied  out  by  the  lone  Joshua-tree,"  I 
answered  him. 

"I'm  going  to  take  a  look  at  that  Cortinez,"  said  the 
little  Englishman,  nodding  his  satisfaction  at  my  news  as  to 
the  horse.  "I'm  not  easy  about  him." 

"He'll  sleep  like  a  log  until  morning,"  Miss  Emory 
reassured  me.  "I've  often  stepped  right  over  him  where 
he  has  been  on  guard  and  walked  all  around  the  garden." 

"Just  the  same  I'm  going  to  take  a  look,"  persisted  West- 
more. 

He  tiptoed  to  the  door,  softly  turned  the  knob  and  opened 
it.  He  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Cortinez. 

94 


CHAPTER  XIII 

I  had  not  thought  of  the  English  groom  as  a  man  of  re- 
source, but  his  action  in  this  emergency  proved  him.  He 
cast  a  fleeting  glance  over  his  shoulder.  Artie  Brower  was 
huddled  down  in  his  armchair  practically  out  of  sight;  Miss 
Emory  and  I  had  reseated  ourselves  in  the  only  other  two 
chairs  in  the  room,  so  that  we  were  in  the  same  relative  posi- 
tions as  when  we  had  been  bound  and  left.  Only  the  con- 
fusion of  the  papers  on  the  floor  and  the  open  safe  would 
have  struck  an  observant  eye. 

"It  is  well  that  you  come,"  said  Tim  to  Cortinez  in 
Spanish.  "The  senor  sent  me  to  conduct  these  two  to  the 
East  Room  and  I  like  not  the  job  alone.  Enter." 

He  held  the  door  with  one  hand  and  fairly  dragged  Cor- 
tinez through  with  the  other.  Instantly  he  closed  the  door 
and  cast  himself  on  Cortinez's  back.  I  had  already  launched 
myself  at  the  Mexican's  throat. 

The  struggle  was  violent  but  brief.  Fortunately  I  had 
not  missed  my  spring  at  our  enemy's  windpipe,  so  he  had 
been  unable  to  shout.  The  noise  of  our  scuffle  sounded 
loud  enough  within  the  walls  of  the  room;  but  those  walls 
were  two  feet  thick,  and  the  door  and  windows  closed. 

"  Get  something  to  gag  him  with,  and  the  cords,"  panted 
Tim  to  the  girl. 

Brower  opened  his  eyes  again. 

95 


THE    KILLER 

"I  can  beat  that,"  he  announced. 

He  produced  his  hypodermic  and  proceeded  to  mix  a 
gunful  of  the  dope. 

"This'll  fix  him,"  he  observed,  turning  back  the  Mexican's 
sleeve.  "You  can  lay  him  outside  and  if  anybody  comes 
along  they'll  think  he's  asleep — as  usual." 

This  we  did  when  the  dope  had  worked. 

It  was  now  high  time  to  think  of  our  next  move.  For 
weapons  we  had  the  gun  and  knife  taken  from  Cortinez  and 
the  miserable  little  automatic  belonging  to  B rower.  That 
was  all.  It  was  perfectly  evident  that  we  could  not  get  out 
through  the  regular  doorways,  as,  by  Tim's  statement,  they 
were  all  closed  and  guarded.  On  my  representation  it  was 
decided  to  try  the  roof. 

We  therefore  knotted  together  the  cord  that  had  bound 
me  and  two  sheets  from  the  bed,  and  sneaked  cautiously 
out  on  the  verandah,  around  the  corner  to  the  water  barrel, 
and  so  to  the  vantage  point  of  the  roof. 

The  chill  of  the  night  was  come,  and  the  stars  hung  cold 
in  the  sky.  It  seemed  that  the  air  would  snap  and  crackle 
were  some  little  resolving  element  to  be  dropped  into  its 
suspended  hush.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  except  a  slow 
drip  of  water  from  somewhere  in  the  courtyard. 

It  was  agreed  that  I,  as  the  heaviest,  should  descend  first. 
I  landed  easily  enough  and  steadied  the  rope  for  Miss  Emory 
who  came  next.  While  I  was  waiting  I  distinctly  heard, 
from  the  direction  of  the  willows,  the  hooting  of  an  owl. 
Furthermore,  it  was  a  great  horned  owl,  and  he  seemed  to 
have  a  lot  to  say.  You  remember  what  I  told  you  about 
setting  your  mind  so  that  only  one  sort  of  noise  will  arouse 

96 


THE    KILLER 

it,  but  that  one  instantly?  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  Old 
Man  Hooper's  mind  was  set  to  all  these  smaller  harmless 
noises  that  most  people  never  notice  at  all,  waking  or  sleep- 
ing— frogs,  crickets,  owls.  And  therefore  I  was  convinced 
that  sooner  or  later  that  old  man  and  his  foolish  ideas  and 
his  shotgun  would  come  projecting  right  across  our  well- 
planned  getaway.  Which  was  just  what  happened,  and 
almost  at  once.  Probably  that  great  horned  owl  had 
been  hooting  for  some  time,  but  we  had  been  too  busy  to 
notice.  I  heard  the  wicket  door  turning  on  its  hinges,  and 
ventured  a  warning  hiss  to  B  rower  and  Tim  Westmore, 
who  had  not  yet  descended.  An  instant  later  I  could  make 
out  shadowy  forms  stealing  toward  the  willows.  Evidently 
those  who  served  Old  Man  Hooper  were  accustomed  to 
broken  rest. 

We  kept  very  quiet,  straining  our  eyes  at  the  willows. 
After  an  interval  a  long  stab  of  light  pierced  the  dusk  and 
the  round  detonation  of  old-fashioned  black  powder  shook 
the  silence.  There  came  to  us  the  babbling  of  voices  re- 
leased. At  the  same  instant  the  newly  risen  moon  plas- 
tered us  against  that  whitewashed  wall  like  insects  pinned 
in  a  cork-lined  case.  The  moonlight  must  have  been  visibly 
creeping  down  to  us  for  some  few  minutes,  but  so  absorbed 
had  I  been  in  the  doings  of  the  party  in  the  willows,  and 
so  chuckleheaded  were  the  two  on  the  roof,  that  actually 
none  of  us  had  noticed! 

I  dropped  flat  and  dragged  the  girl  down  with  me.  But 
there  remained  that  ridiculous,  plainly  visible  rope;  and  any- 
way a  shout  relieved  me  of  any  doubt  as  to  whether  we  had 
been  seen.  Brower  came  tumbling  down  on  us,  and  with 

97 


THE    KILLER 

one  accord  we  three  doubled  to  the  right  around  the  walls 
of  the  ranch.  A  revolver  shot  sang  by  us,  but  we  were  not 
immediately  pursued.  Our  antagonists  were  too  few  and 
too  uncertain  of  our  numbers  and  arms. 

It  was  up  to  us  to  utilize  the  few  minutes  before  the  ranch 
should  be  aroused.  We  doubled  back  through  the  willows 
and  across  the  mesquite  flat  toward  the  lone  Joshua-tree 
where  I  had  left  my  horse.  I  held  the  girl's  hand  to  help 
her  when  she  stumbled,  while  B rower  scuttled  along  with 
surprising  endurance  for  a  dope  wreck.  Nobody  said  any- 
thing, but  saved  their  wind. 

"Where's  Tim?"  I  asked  at  a  check  when  we  had  to 
scramble  across  a  barranca. 

"He  went  back  into  the  ranch  the  way  we  came,"  replied 
Artie  with  some  bitterness. 

It  was,  nevertheless,  the  wisest  thing  he  could  have  done. 
He  had  not  been  identified  with  this  outfit  except  by  Cor- 
tinez,  and  Cortinez  was  safe  for  twelve  hours. 

We  found  the  Joshua-tree  without  difficulty. 

"Now,"  said  I,  "here  is  the  plan.  You  are  to  take  these 
papers  to  Senor  Buck  Johnson,  at  the  Box  Springs  ranch. 
That's  the  next  ranch  on  the  fork  of  the  road.  Do  you  re- 
member it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Brower,  who  had  waked  up  and  seemed  quite 
sober  and  responsible.  "  I  can  get  to  it. " 

"Wake  him  up.  Show  him  these  papers.  Make  him 
read  them.  Tell  him  that  Miss  Emory  and  I  are  in  the 
Bat-eye  Tunnel.  Remember  that?  " 

"The  Bat-eye  Tunnel,"  repeated  Artie. 

"Why  don't  you  go?"  inquired  the  girl,  anxiously. 


THE    KILLER 

"I  ride  too  heavy;  and  I  know  where  the  tunnel  is,"  I 
replied.  "If  anybody  else  was  to  go,  it  would  be  you. 
But  Artie  rides  light  and  sure,  and  he'll  have  to  ride  like  hell. 
Here,  put  these  papers  inside  your  shirt.  Be  off ! " 

Lights  were  flickering  at  the  ranch  as  men  ran  to  and  fro 
with  lanterns.  It  would  not  take  these  skilled  vaqueros 
long  to  catch  their  horses  and  saddle  up.  At  any  moment 
I  expected  to  see  the  massive  doors  swing  open  to  let  loose 
the  wolf  pack. 

Brower  ran  to  my  horse — a  fool  proceeding,  especially 
for  an  experienced  horseman — and  jerked  loose  the  tie  rope. 
Badger  is  a  good  reliable  cow  horse,  but  he's  not  a  million 
years  old,  and  he's  got  some  natural  equine  suspicions.  I 
kind  of  lay  a  good  deal  of  it  to  that  fool  hard-boiled  hat.  At 
any  rate,  he  snorted  and  sagged  back  on  the  rope,  hit  a 
yucca  point,  whirled  and  made  off.  Artie  was  game.  He 
hung  on  until  he  was  drug  into  a  bunch  of  chollas,  and  then 
he  had  to  let  go.  Badger  departed  into  the  distance,  tail 
up  and  snorting. 

"Well,  you've  done  it  now!"  I  observed  to  Brower,  who, 
crying  with  nervous  rage  and  chagrin,  and  undoubtedly 
considerably  stuck  up  with  cholla  spines,  was  crawling 
to  his  feet. 

"Can't  we  catch  him?  Won't  he  stop?"  asked  Miss 
Emory.  "  If  he  gets  to  the  ranch,  won't  they  look  for  you?  " 

"He's  one  of  my  range  ponies:  he  won't  stop  short  of  the 
Gila." 

I  cast  over  the  chances  in  my  mind,  weighing  my  knowl- 
edge of  the  country  against  the  probabilities  of  search. 
The  proportion  was  small.  Most  of  my  riding  experience 

99 


THE    KILLER 

had  been  farther  north  and  to  the  west.  Such  obvious  hole- 
ups  as  the  one  I  had  suggested — the  Bat-eye  Tunnel — were 
of  course  familiar  to  our  pursuers.  My  indecision  must 
have  seemed  long,  for  the  girl  broke  in  anxiously  on  my 
meditations. 

"Oughtn't  we  to  be  moving?  " 

"As  well  here  as  anywhere,"  I  replied.  "We  are  under 
good  cover;  and  afoot  we  could  not  much  better  ourselves 
as  against  mounted  men.  We  must  hide." 

"But  they  may  find  the  trampled  ground  where  your 
horse  has  been  tied." 

"I  hope  they  do." 

"You  hope  they  do!" 

"Sure.  They'll  figure  that  we  must  sure  have  moved 
away.  They'll  never  guess  we'd  hide  near  at  hand.  At 
least  that's  what  I  hope." 

"How about  tracks?" 

" Not  at  night.    By  daylight  maybe." 

"But  then  to-morrow  morning  they  can " 

"To-morrow  morning  is  a  long  way  off." 

"Look!"  cried  Brower. 

The  big  gates  of  the  ranch  had  been  thrown  open.  The 
glare  of  a  light — probably  a  locomotive  headlight — poured 
out.  Mounted  figures  galloped  forth  and  swerved  to  right 
or  left,  spreading  in  a  circle  about  the  enclosure.  The  horse- 
men reined  to  a  trot  and  began  methodically  to  quarter  the 
ground,  weaving  back  and  forth.  Four  detached  them- 
selves and  rode  off  at  a  swift  gallop  to  the  points  of  the  com- 
pass. The  mounted  men  were  working  fast  for  fear,  I  sup- 
pose, that  we  may  have  possessed  horses.  Another  contin- 

100 


THE     KILLER 

gent,  afoot  and  with  lanterns,  followed  more  slowly,  going 
over  the  ground  for  indications.  I  could  not  but  admire 
the  skill  and  thoroughness  of  the  plan. 

"Our  only  chance  is  in  the  shadow  from  the  moon,"  I 
told  my  companions.  "If  we  can  slip  through  the  riders, 
and  get  in  their  rear,  we  may  be  able  to  follow  the  barranca 
down.  Any  of  those  big  rocks  will  do.  Lay  low,  and  after 
a  rider  has  gone  over  a  spot,  try  to  get  to  that  spot  without 
being  seen." 

We  were  not  to  be  kept  long  in  suspense.  Out  of  all  the 
three  hundred  and  sixty  degrees  of  the  circle  one  of  the 
swift  outriders  selected  precisely  our  direction!  Straight 
as  an  arrow  he  came  for  us,  at  full  gallop.  I  could  see  the 
toss  of  his  horse's  mane  against  the  light  from  the  opened 
door.  There  was  no  time  to  move.  All  we  could  do  was 
to  cower  beneath  our  rock,  muscles  tense,  and  hope  to  be 
able  to  glide  around  the  shadow  as  he  passed. 

But  he  did  not  pass.  Down  into  the  shallow  barranca 
he  slid  with  a  tinkle  of  shale,  and  drew  rein  within  ten  feet 
of  our  lurking  place. 

We  could  hear  the  soft  snorting  of  his  mount  above  the 
thumping  of  our  hearts.  I  managed  to  get  into  a  position 
to  steal  a  glimpse.  It  was  difficult,  but  at  length  I  made  out 
the  statuesque  lines  of  the  horse,  and  the  rider  himself, 
standing  in  his  stirrups  and  leaning  slightly  forward,  peer- 
ing intently  about  him.  The  figures  were  in  silhouette 
against  the  sky,  but  nobody  ever  fooled  me  as  to  a  horse. 
It  was  the  Morgan  stallion,  and  the  rider  was  Tim  West- 
more.  Just  as  the  realization  came  to  me,  Tim  uttered  a 
low,  impatient  whistle. 

101 


THE    KILLER 

It's  always  a  good  idea  to  take  a  chance.  I  arose  into 
view — but  I  kept  my  gun  handy. 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Tim,  fervently,  under  his  breath. 
"  I  remembered  you'd  left  your  horse  by  this  Joshua :  it's  the 
only  landmark  in  the  dark.  Saints!"  he  ejaculated  in 
dismay  as  he  saw  us  all.  "  Where's  your  horse?  " 

"Gone." 

"We  can't  all  ride  this  stallion " 

"Listen,"  I  cut  in,  and  I  gave  him  the  same  directions  I 
had  previously  given  Brower.  He  heard  me  attentively. 

"I  can  beat  that,"  he  cut  me  off.  He  dismounted. 
"  Get  on  here,  Artie.  Ride  down  the  barranca  two  hundred 
yards  and  you'll  come  to  an  alkali  flat.  Get  out  on  that 
flat  and  ride  like  hell  for  Box  Springs." 

"  Why  don't  you  do  it?" 

"  I'm  going  back  and  tell  'em  how  I  was  slugged  and  rob- 
bed of  my  horse." 

"They'll  kill  you  if  they  suspect;  dare  you  go  back?  " 

"I've  been  back  once,"  he  pointed  out.  He  was  helping 
Brower  aboard. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  bag?"  he  asked. 

"Found  it  by  the  rock  where  we  were  hiding:  it's  mine," 
replied  Brower. 

Westmore  tried  to  get  him  to  leave  it,  but  the  little  jockey 
was  obstinate.  He  kicked  his  horse  and,  bending  low,  rode 
away. 

"You're  right:  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  answered  West- 
more's  remark  to  me.  "You  don't  look  slugged." 

"That's  easy  fixed,"  said  Tim,  calmly.  He  removed 
his  hat  and  hit  his  forehead  a  very  solid  blow  against  a  pro- 

102 


THE    KILLER 

jection  of  the  conglomerate  boulder.  The  girl  screamed 
slightly. 

"Hush!"  warned  Tim  in  a  fierce  whisper.  He  raised  his 
hand  toward  the  approaching  horsemen,  who  were  now  very 
near.  Without  attention  to  the  blood  streaming  from 
his  brow  he  bent  his  head  to  listen  to  the  faint  clinking  of 
steel  against  rock  that  marked  the  stallion's  progress 
toward  the  alkali  flat.  The  searchers  were  by  now  danger- 
ously close,  and  Tim  uttered  a  smothered  oath  of  impatience. 
But  at  last  we  distinctly  heard  the  faint,  soft  thud  of  gallop- 
ing hoofs. 

The  searchers  heard  it,  too,  and  reined  up  to  listen.  Tim 
thrust  into  my  hand  the  30-30  Winchester  he  was  carrying 
together  with  a  box  of  cartridges.  Then  with  a  leap  like 
a  tiger  he  gained  the  rim  of  the  barranca.  Once  there, 
however,  his  forces  seemed  to  desert  him.  He  staggered 
forward  calling  in  a  weak  voice.  I  could  hear  the  volley 
of  rapid  questions  shot  at  him  by  the  men  who  immediately 
surrounded  him;  and  his  replies.  Then  somebody  fired  a 
revolver  thrice  in  rapid  succession  and  the  whole  caval- 
cade swept  away  with  a  mighty  crackling  of  brush. 
Immediately  after  Tim  rejoined  us.  I  had  not  expected 
this. 

Relieved  for  the  moment  we  hurried  Miss  Emory  rapidly 
up  the  bed  of  the  shallow  wash.  The  tunnel  mentioned  was 
part  of  an  old  mine  operation,  undertaken  at  some  remote 
period  before  the  cattle  days.  It  entered  the  base  of  one 
of  those  isolated  conical  hills,  lying  like  islands  in  the  plain, 
so  common  in  Arizona.  From  where  we  had  hidden  it  lay 
about  three  miles  to  the  northeast.  It  was  a  natural  and 

103 


THE    KILLER 

obvious  hide  out,  and  I  had  no  expectation  of  remaining 
unmolested.  My  hope  lay  in  rescue. 

We  picked  our  way  under  cover  of  the  ravine  as  long  as 
we  could,  then  struck  boldly  across  the  plain.  Nobody 
seemed  to  be  following  us.  A  wild  hope  entered  my  heart 
that  perhaps  they  might  believe  we  had  all  made  our  escape 
to  Box  Springs. 

As  we  proceeded  the  conviction  was  borne  in  on  me  that 
the  stratagem  had  at  least  saved  us  from  immediate  capture. 
vLike  most  men  who  ride  I  had  very  sketchy  ideas  of  what 
three  miles  afoot  is  like — at  night — in  high  heels.  The 
latter  affliction  was  common  to  both  Miss  Emory  and  myself. 
She  had  on  a  sort  of  bedroom  slipper,  and  I  wore  the  usual 
cowboy  boots.  We  began  to  go  footsore  about  the  same 
tune,  and  the  little  rolling  volcanic  rocks  among  the  bunches 
of  sacatone  did  not  help  us  a  bit.  Tim  made  good  time, 
curse  him.  Or  rather,  bless  him;  for  as  I  just  said,  if  he  had 
not  tolled  away  our  mounted  pursuit  we  would  have  been 
caught  as  sure  as-. God  made  little  green  apples.  He  seemed 
as  lively  as  a  cricket,  in  spite  of  the  dried  blood  across  his  face. 

The  moon  was  now  sailing  well  above  the  horizon,  throw- 
ing the  world  into  silver  and  black  velvet.  When  we  moved 
hi  the  open  we  showed  up  like  a  train  of  cars;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  shadow  was  a  cloak.  It  was  by  now  nearly 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Miss  Emory's  nerve  did  not  belie  the  clear,  steadfast  look 
of  her  eye;  but  she  was  about  all  in  when  we  reached  the 
foot  of  Bat-eye  Butte.  Tim  and  I  had  discussed  the  pro- 
cedure as  we  walked.  I  was  for  lying  in  wait  outside;  but 
Tim  pointed  out  that  the  tunnel  entrance  was  well  down  in 

104 


THE    KILLER 

the  boulders,  that  even  the  sharpest  outlook  could  not  be 
sure  of  detecting  an  approach  through  the  shadows,  and 
that  from  the  shelter  of  the  roof  props  and  against  the  light 
we  should  be  able  to  hold  off  a  large  force  almost  indefinitely. 
In  any  case,  we  would  have  to  gamble  on  Brewer's  winning 
through,  and  having  sense  enough  in  his  opium-saturated 
mind  to  make  a  convincing  yarn  of  it.  So  after  a  drink  at 
the  tenaja  below  the  mine  we  entered  the  black  square  of  the 
tunnel. 

The  work  was  old,  but  it  had  been  well  done.  They  must 
have  dragged  the  timbers  down  from  the  White  Mountains. 
Indeed  a  number  of  unused  beams,  both  trunks  of  trees 
and  squared,  still  lay  around  outside.  From  time  to  time, 
since  the  original  operations,  some  locoed  prospector  comes 
projecting  along  and  does  a  little  work  in  hopes  he  may  find 
something  the  other  fellow  had  missed.  So  the  passage 
was  crazy  with  props  and  supports,  new  and  old,  placed  to 
brace  the  ageing  overhead  timbers.  Going  in  they  were  a 
confounded  nuisance  against  the  bumped  head;  but  looking 
back  toward  the  square  of  light  they  made  fine  protections 
behind  which  to  crouch.  In  this  part  of  the  country  any 
tunnel  would  be  dry.  It  ran  straight  for  about  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet. 

We  groped  our  way  about  seventy-five  feet,  which  was  as 
far  as  we  could  make  out  the  opening  distinctly,  and  sat 
down  to  wait.  I  still  had  the  rest  of  the  tailor-made  cig- 
arettes, which  I  shared  with  Tim.  We  did  not  talk,  for  we 
wished  to  listen  for  sounds  outside.  To  judge  by  her 
breathing,  I  think  Miss  Emory  dozed,  or  even  went  to 
sleep. 

105 


THE    KILLER 

About  an  hour  later  I  thought  to  hear  a  single  tinkle  of 
shale.  Tun  heard  it,  too,  for  he  nudged  me.  Our  straining 
ears  caught  nothing  further,  however;  and  I,  for  one,  had 
relaxed  from  my  tension  when  the  square  of  light  was 
darkened  by  a  figure.  I  was  nearest,  so  I  raised  Cortinez's 
gun  and  fired.  The  girl  uttered  a  scream,  and  the  figure 
disappeared.  I  don't  know  yet  whether  I  hit  him  or  not; 
we  never  found  any  blood. 

We  made  Miss  Emory  lie  down  behind  a  little  slide  of 
rock,  and  disposed  ourselves  under  shelter. 

"We  can  take  them  as  fast  as  they  come,"  exulted 
Tim. 

"I  don't  believe  there  are  more  than  two  or  three  of  them," 
I  observed.  "It  would  be  only  a  scouting  party.  They 
will  go  for  help." 

As  there  was  no  longer  reason  for  concealment,  we  talked 
aloud  and  freely. 

Now  ensued  a  long  waiting  interim.  We  could  hear 
various  sounds  outside  as  of  moving  to  and  fro.  The  enemy 
had  likewise  no  reason  for  further  concealment. 

£ '  Look ! ' '  suddenly  cried  Tim.     ' '  Something  crawling. " 

He  raised  the  30-30  and  fired.  Before  the  flash  and  the 
fumes  had  blinded  me  I,  too,  had  seen  indistinctly  some- 
thing low  and  prone  gliding  around  the  corner  of  the  en- 
trance. That  was  all  we  could  make  out  of  it,  for  as  you 
can  imagine  the  light  was  almost  non-existent.  The  thing 
glided  steadily,  untouched  or  unmindful  of  the  shots  we 
threw  at  it.  When  it  came  to  the  first  of  the  crazy  uprights 
supporting  the  roof  timbers  it  seemed  to  hesitate  gropingly. 
Then  it  drew  slowly  back  a  foot  or  so,  and  darted  forward. 

106 


THE    KILLER 

The  ensuing  thud  enlightened  us.  The  thing  was  one  of 
the  long,  squared  timbers  we  had  noted  outside;  and  it  was 
being  used  as  a  battering  ram. 

"They'll  bring  the  whole  mountain  down  on  us!"  cried 
Tim,  springing  forward. 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  and  before  he  had  moved  two  feet, 
that  catastrophe  seemed  at  least  to  have  begun.  The  prop 
gave  way:  the  light  at  the  entrance  was  at  once  blotted 
out;  the  air  was  filled  with  terrifying  roaring  echoes.  There 
followed  a  succession  of  crashes,  the  rolling  of  rocks -over 
each  other,  the  grinding  slide  of  avalanches  great  and  small. 
We  could  scarcely  breathe  for  the  dust.  Our  danger  was 
that  now  the  thing  was  started  it  would  not  stop:  that  the 
antique  and  inadequate  supports  would  all  give  way,  one 
bringing  down  the  other  in  succession  until  we  were  buried. 
Would  the  forces  of  equilibrium  establish  themselves  through 
the  successive  slight  resistances  of  these  rotted,  worm- 
eaten  old  timbers  before  the  constricted  space  in  which  we 
crouched  should  be  entirely  eaten  away? 

After  the  first  great  crash  there  ensued  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation. Then  a  second  span  succumbed.  There  followed 
a  series  of  minor  chutes  with  short  intervening  silences.  At 
last  so  long  an  interval  of  calm  ensued  that  we  plucked  up 
courage  to  believe  it  all  over.  A  single  stone  rolled  a  few 
feet  and  hit  the  rock  floor  with  a  bang.  Then,  immediately 
after,  the  first  deafening  thunder  was  repeated  as  evidently 
another  span  gave  way.  It  sounded  as  though  the  whole 
mountain  had  moved.  I  was  almost  afraid  to  stretch  out 
my  hand  for  fear  it  would  encounter  the  wall  of  debris.  The 
roar  ceased  as  abruptly  as  it  had  begun.  Followed  then  a 

107 


THE    KILLER 

long  silence.    Then  a  little  cascading  tinkle  of  shale.    And 
another  dead  silence. 

"I  believe  it's  over/'  ventured  Miss  Emory,  after  a  long 
time. 

"I'm  going  to  find  out  how  bad  it  is,"  I  asserted. 

I  moved  forward  cautiously,  my  arms  extended  before 
me,  feeling  my  way  with  my  feet.  Foot  after  foot  I  went, 
encountering  nothing  but  the  props.  Expecting  as  I  did 
to  meet  an  obstruction  within  a  few  paces  at  most,  I  soon 
lost  my  sense  of  distance;  after  a  few  moments  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  must  have  gone  much  farther  than  the  original 
length  of  the  tunnel.  At  last  I  stumbled  over  a  frag- 
ment, and  so  found  my  fingers  against  a  rough  mass  of 
debris. 

"Why,  this  is  fine!"  I  cried  to  the  others,  "I  don't 
believe  more  than  a  span  or  so  has  gone!" 

I  struck  one  of  my  few  remaining  matches  to  make  sure. 
While  of  course  I  had  no  very  accurate  mental  image  of  the 
original  state  of  things,  still  it  seemed  to  me  there  was  an 
awful  lot  of  tunnel  left.  As  the  whole  significance  of  our 
situation  came  to  me,  I  laughed  aloud. 

"Well,"  said  I,  cheerfully,  "they  couldn't  have  done 
us  a  better  favour!  It's  a  half  hour's  job  to  dig  us  out,  and 
in  the  meantime  we  are  safe  as  a  covered  bridge.  We  don't 
even  have  to  keep  watch." 

"Provided  Brower  gets  through,"  the  girl  reminded  us. 

"He'll  get  through,"  assented  Tim,  positively.  "There's 
nothing  on  four  legs  can  catch  that  Morgan  stallion." 

I  opened  my  watch  crystal  and  felt  of  the  hands.  Half- 
past  two. 

108 


THE    KILLER 

"Four  or  five  hours  before  they  can  get  here,"  I  an- 
nounced. 

"We'd  better  go  to  sleep,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Emory. 

"Good  idea,"  I  approved.  "Just  pick  your  rocks  and 
go  to  it." 

I  sat  down  and  leaned  against  one  of  the  uprights,  ex- 
pecting fully  to  wait  with  what  patience  I  might  the  march 
of  events.  Sleep  was  the  farthest  thing  from  my  thoughts. 
When  I  came  to  I  found  myself  doubled  on  my  side  with  a 
short  piece  of  ore  sticking  in  my  ribs  and  eighteen  or  twenty 
assorted  cramp-pains  in  various  parts  of  me.  This  was 
all  my  consciousness  had  room  to  attend  to  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. Then  I  became  dully  aware  of  faint  tinkling  sounds 
and  muffled  shoutings  from  the  outer  end  of  the  tunnel. 
I  shouted  in  return  and  made  my  way  as  rapidly  as  possible 
toward  the  late  entrance. 

A  half  hour  later  we  crawled  cautiously  through  a  pre- 
carious opening  and  stood  blinking  at  the  sunlight. 


109 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  group  of  about  twenty  men  greeted  our  appearance 
with  a  wild  cowboy  yell.  Some  of  the  men  of  our  outfit 
were  there,  but  not  all;  and  I  recognized  others  from  as  far 
south  as  the  Chiracahuas.  Windy  Bill  was  there  with  Jed 
Parker;  but  Senor  Johnson's  bulky  figure  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  The  other  men  were  all  riders — nobody  of  any 
particular  standing  or  authority.  The  sun  made  it  about 
three  o'clock  of  the  afternoon.  Our  adventures  had  cer- 
tainly brought  us  a  good  sleep! 

After  we  had  satisfied  our  thirst  from  a  canteen  we  began 
to  ask  and  answer  questions.  Artie  Brower  had  made  the 
ranch  without  mishap,  had  told  his  story,  and  had  promptly 
fallen  asleep.  Buck  Johnson,  in  his  usual  deliberate  man- 
ner, read  all  the  papers  through  twice;  pondered  for  some 
time  while  the  more  excited  Jed  and  Windy  fidgeted  im- 
patiently; and  then,  his  mind  made  up,  acted  with  his  cus- 
tomary decision.  Three  men  he  sent  to  reconnoitre  in  the 
direction  of  the  Bat-eye  Tunnel  with  instructions  to  keep 
out  of  trouble  and  to  report  promptly.  His  other  riders 
he  dispatched  with  an  insistent  summons  to  all  the  leading 
cattlemen  as  far  south  as  the  Chiracahua  Range,  as  far 
east  as  Grant's  Pass,  as  far  west  as  Madrona.  Such  was 
Buck  Johnson's  reputation  for  level-headedness  that  with- 
out hesitation  these  men  saddled  and  rode  at  then:  best 

no 


THE    KILLER 

speed.    By  noon  the  weightiest  of  the  Soda  Spring  Valley 
had  gathered  in  conclave. 

"That's  where  we  faded  out,"  said  Jed  Parker.  "They 
sent  us  up  to  see  about  you-all.  The  scouts  from  up  here 
come  back  with  their  little  Wild  West  story  about  knocking 
down  this  yere  mountain  on  top  of  you.  We  had  to  believe 
them  because  they  brought  back  a  little  proof  with  them. 
Mex  guns  and  spurs  and  such  plunder  looted  off'n  the  de- 
ceased on  the  field  of  battle.  Bill  here  can  tell  you." 

"They  was  only  two  of  them,"  said  Windy  Bill,  diffident 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  "and  we  managed  to  catch  one 
of  'em  foul.  We  been  digging  here  for  too  long.  We  ain't 
no  prairie  dogs  to  go  delving  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  We 
thought  you  must  be  plumb  deceased  anyhow:  we  couldn't 
get  a  peep  out  of  you.  I  was  in  favour  of  leavin'  you  lay 
myself.  This  yere  butte  seemed  like  a  first-rate  imposing 
tomb;  and  I  was  willing  mysell  to  carve  a  few  choice  senti- 
ments on  some  selected  rock.  Sure  I  can  carve!  But  Jed 
here  allowed  that  you  owed  him  ten  dollars  and  maybe  had 
some  money  in  your  pocket " 

"Shut  up,  Windy,"  I  broke  in.  "Can't  you  see  the  young 
lady " 

Windy  whirled  all  contrition  and  apologies. 

"Donft  you  mind  me,  ma'am,"  he  begged.  "They  call 
me  Windy  Bill,  and  I  reckon  that's  about  right.  I  don't 
mean  nothing.  And  we'd  have  dug  all  through  this  butte 
before " 

"I  know  that.  It  isn't  your  talk,"  interrupted  Miss  Emory, 
"but  the  sun  is  hot — and — haven't  you  anything  at  all  to 
eat?" 

in 


THE    KILLER 

" Suffering  giraffes! "  cried  Windy  above  the  chorus  of  dis- 
may. " Lunkheads!  chumps'  Of  all  the  idiot  plays  ever 
made  in  this  territory ! "  He  turned  to  the  dismayed  group. 
"Ain't  any  one  of  you  boys  had  sense  enough  to  bring  any 
grub?" 

But  nobody  had.  The  old-fashioned  Arizona  cowboy  ate 
only  twice  a  day.  It  would  never  occur  to  him  to  carry  a 
lunch  for  noon.  Still,  they  might  have  considered  a  rescue 
party's  probable  needs. 

We  mounted  and  started  for  the  Box  Springs  ranch. 
They  had  at  least  known  enough  to  bring  extra  horses. 

"Old  Hooper  knows  the  cat  is  out  of  the  bag  now,"  I 
suggested  as  we  rode  along. 

"He  sure  does." 

"Do  you  think  he'll  stick'  or  will  he  get  out?" 

"He'll  stick." 

"I  don't  know "    I  argued,  doubtfully. 

"I  do,"  with  great  positiveness. 

"Why  are  you  so  sure?" 

"There  are  men  in  the  brush  all  around  his  ranch  to  see 
that  he  does." 

"For  heaven's  sake  how  many  have  you  got  together?"  I 
cried,  astonished. 

"About  three  hundred,"  said  Jed. 

"What's  the  plan?" 

"I  don't  know.  They  were  chewing  over  it  when  I  left 
But  I'll  bet  something's  going  to  pop.  There's  a  bunch  of 
'em  on  that  sweet  little  list  you-all  dug  up." 

We  rode  slowly.  It  was  near  five  o'clock  when  we  pulled 
down  the  lane  toward  the  big  corrals.  The  latter  were  full 

112 


THE    KILLER 

of  riding  horses,  and  the  fences  were  topped  with  neatly 
arranged  saddles.  Men  were  everywhere,  seated  in  rows 
on  top  rails,  gathered  in  groups,  leaning  idly  against  the 
ranch  buildings.  There  was  a  feeling  of  waiting. 

We  were  discovered  and  acclaimed  with  a  wild  yell  that 
brought  everybody  running.  Immediately  we  were  sur- 
rounded. Escorted  by  a  clamouring  multitude  we  moved 
slowly  down  the  lane  and  into  the  enclosure. 

There  awaited  us  a  dozen  men  headed  by  Buck  Johnson. 
They  emerged  from  the  office  as  we  drew  up.  At  sight  of 
them  the  cowboys  stopped,  and  we  moved  forward  alone. 
For  here  were  the  substantial  men  of  this  part  of  the  terri- 
tory, the  old  timers,  who  had  come  in  the  early  days  and 
who  had  persisted  through  the  Indian  wars,  .the  border 
forays,  the  cattle  rustlings,  through  drought  and  enmity 
and  bad  years.  A  grim,  elderly,  four-square,  unsmiling  little 
band  of  granite-faced  pioneers,  their  very  appearance  car- 
ried a  conviction  of  direct  and,  if  necessary,  ruthless  action. 
At  sight  of  them  my  heart  leaped.  Twenty-four  hours  pre- 
vious my  case  had  seemed  none  too  joyful.  Now,  mainly 
by  my  own  efforts,  after  all,  I  was  no  longer  alone. 

They  did  not  waste  time  in  vain  congratulations  or  query. 
The  occasion  was  too  grave  for  such  side  issues.  Buck 
Johnson  said  something  very  brief  to  the  effect  that  he  was 
glad  to  see  us  safe. 

"If  this  young  lady  will  come  in  first,"  he  suggested. 

But  I  was  emboldened  to  speak  up. 

"This  young  lady  has  not  had  a  bite  to  eat  since  last 
night/'  I  interposed. 

The  senor  bent  on  me  his  grave  look. 

1*3 


THE    KILLER 

"Thank  you,"  said  he.  "Sing!"  he  roared,  and  then  to 
the  Chinaman  who  showed  up  in  a  nervous  hover:  "Give 
this  lady  grub,  savvy?  If  you'll  go  with  him,  ma'am,  he'll 
get  you  up  something.  Then  we'd  like  to  see  you." 

"I  can  perfectly  well  wait—     "  she  began. 

"I'd  rather  not,  ma'am,"  said  Buck  with  such  grave 
finality  that  she  merely  bowed  and  followed  the  cook. 


114 


CHAPTER  XV 

They  had  no  tender  feelings  about  me,  however.  No- 
body cared  whether  I  ever  ate  or  not.  I  was  led  into  the 
little  ranch  office  and  catechized  to  a  fare-ye-well.  They 
sat  and  roosted  and  squatted  about,  emitting  solemn  puffs 
of  smoke  and  speaking  never  a  word;  and  the  sun  went 
down  in  shafts  of  light  through  the  murk,  and  the  old 
shadows  of  former  days  crept  from  the  corners.  When  I 
had  finished  my  story  it  was  dusk. 

And  on  the  heels  of  my  recital  came  the  sound  of  hoofs 
in  a  hurry;  and  presently  loomed  in  the  doorway  the  gigan- 
tic figure  of  Tom  Thorne,  the  sheriff.  He  peered,  seeing 
nothing  through  the  smoke  and  the  twilight;  and  the  old 
timers  sat  tight  and  smoked. 

"Buck  Johnson  here?"  asked  Thorne  in  his  big  voice. 

"Here,"  replied  the  sefior. 

"I  am  told,"  said  Thorne,  directly,  "that  there  is  here  an 
assembly  for  unlawful  purposes.  If  so,  I  call  on  you  in  the 
name  of  the  law  to  keep  the  peace." 

"Tom,"  rejoined  Buck  Johnson,  "I  want  you  to  make  me 
your  deputy." 

"For  what  purpose?" 

"There  is  a  dispossession  notice  to  be  served  hereabouts; 
a  trespasser  who  must  be  put  off  from  property  that  is  not 
his." 


THE    KILLER 

"You  men  are  after  Hooper,  and  I  know  it.  Now  you 
can't  run  your  neighbours'  quarrels  with  a  gun,  not  anymore. 
This  is  a  country  of  law  now." 

"Tom,"  repeated  Buck  in  a  reasoning  tone,  "come  in. 
Strike  a  light  if  you  want  to:  and  take  a  look  around. 
There's  a  lot  of  your  friends  here.  There's  Jim  Carson  over 
in  the  corner,  and  Donald  Macomber,  and  Marcus  Malley, 
and  Dan  Watkins." 

At  this  slow  telling  of  the  most  prominent  names  in  the 
southwest  cattle  industry  Tom  Thorne  took  a  step  into  the 
room  and  lighted  a  match.  The  little  flame,  held  high  above 
his  head,  burned  down  to  his  fingers  while  he  stared  at  the 
impassive  faces  surrounding  him.  Probably  he  had  thought 
to  interfere  dutifully  in  a  local  affair  of  considerable  serious- 
ness; and  there  is  no  doubt  that  Tom  Thorne  was  never 
afraid  of  his  duty.  But  here  was  Arizona  itself  gathered 
for  purposes  of  its  own.  He  hardly  noticed  when  the  flame 
scorched  his  fingers. 

"Tom,"  said  Buck  Johnson  after  a  moment,  "I  heerd  tell 
of  a  desperate  criminal  headed  for  Grant's  Pass,  and  I  figure 
you  can  just  about  catch  up  with  him  if  you  start  right  now 
and  keep  on  riding.  Only  you'd  better  make  me  your 
deputy  first.  It'll  sort  of  leave  things  in  good  legal  respon- 
sible hands,  as  you  can  always  easy  point  out  if  asked." 

Tom  gulped. 

"Raise  your  right  hand,"  he  commanded,  curtly,  and  ad- 
ministered the  oath.  "Now  I  leave  it  in  your  hands  to 
preserve  the  peace,"  he  concluded.  "I  call  you  all  to  wit- 
ness." 

"That's  all  right,  Tom,"  said  Buck,  still  in  his  crooning 

116 


THE    KILLER 

tones,  taking  the  big  sheriff  by  the  elbow  and  gently  pro- 
pelling him  toward  the  door,  "now  as  to  this  yere  criminal 
over  toward  Grant's  Pass,  he  was  a  little  bit  of  a  runt  about 
six  foot  three  tall;  heavy  set,  weight  about  a  hundred  and 
ten;  light  complected  with  black  hair  and  eyes.  You  can't 
help  but  find  him.  Tom's  a  good  sort,"  he  observed,  coming 
back,  "but  he's  young.  He  don't  realize  yet  that  when 
things  get  real  serious  this  sheriff  foolishness  just  nat'rally 
bogs  down.  Now  I  reckon  we'd  better  talk  to  the  girl." 

I  made  a  beeline  for  the  cook  house  while  they  did  that 
and  filled  up  for  three.  By  the  time  I  had  finished,  the 
conference  was  raised,  and  men  were  catching  and  saddling 
their  mounts.  I  did  not  intend  to  get  left  out,  you  may  be 
sure,  so  I  rustled  around  and  borrowed  me  a  saddle  and  a 
horse,  and  was  ready  to  start  with  the  rest. 

We  jogged  up  the  road  in  a  rough  sort  of  column,  the  old 
timers  riding  ahead  in  a  group  of  their  own.  No  injunction 
had  been  laid  as  to  keeping  quiet;  nevertheless,  conversation 
was  sparse  and  low  voiced.  The  men  mostly  rode  in  silence 
smoking  their  cigarettes.  About  half  way  the  leaders  sum- 
moned me,  and  I  trotted  up  to  join  them. 

They  wanted  to  know  about  the  situation  of  the  ranch 
as  I  had  observed  it.  I  could  not  encourage  them  much. 
My  recollection  made  of  the  place  a  thoroughly  protected 
walled  fortress,  capable  of  resisting  a  considerable  assault. 

"Of  course  with  this  gang  we  could  sail  right  over  them," 
observed  Buck,  thoughtfully,  "but  we'd  lose  a  considerable 
of  men  doing  it." 

"Ain't  no  chance  of  sneaking  somebody  inside?"  suggested 
Watkins. 

117 


THE    KILLER 

"  Got  to  give  Old  Man  Hooper  credit  for  some  sense," 
replied  the  senor,  shortly. 

"We  can  starve  'em  out,"  suggested  somebody. 

"  Unless  I  miss  the  old  man  a  mile  he's  already  got  a  mes- 
senger headed  for  the  troops  at  Fort  Huachuca,"  interposed 
Macomber.  "  He  ain't  fool  enough  to  take  chances  on  a  local 
sheriff." 

"  You're  tooting  he  ain't,"  approved  Buck  Johnson.  "  It's 
got  to  be  quick  work." 

"  Burn  him  out,"  said  Watkins. 

"It's  the  young  lady's  property,"  hesitated  my  boss.  "I 
kind  of  hate  to  destroy  it  unless  we  have  to." 

At  this  moment  the  Morgan  stallion,  which  I  had  not 
noticed  before,  was  reined  back  to  join  our  little  group. 
Atop  him  rode  the  diminutive  form  of  Artie  Brower  whom 
I  had  thought  down  and  out.  He  had  evidently  had  his 
evening's  dose  of  hop  and  under  the  excitation  of  the  first 
effect  had  joined  the  party.  His  derby  hat  was  flattened 
down  to  his  ears.  Somehow  it  exasperated  me. 

"  For  heaven's  sake  why  don't  you  get  you  a  decent  hat ! " 
I  muttered,  but  to  myself.  He  was  carrying  that  precious 
black  bag. 

"Blow  a  hole  in  his  old  walls!"  he  suggested,  cheerfully. 
"That  old  fort  was  built  against  Injins.  A  man  could  sneak 
up  in  the  shadow  and  set  her  off.  It  wouldn't  take  but  a 
dash  of  soup  to  stick  a  hole  you  could  ride  through  a-horse- 
back." 

"Soup?  "echoed  Buck. 

"Nitroglycerine,"  explained  Watkins,  who  had  once  been 
a  miner. 

118 


THE    KILLER 

"Oh,  sure!"  agreed  Buck,  sarcastically.  "And  where'd 
we  get  it?" 

"I  always  carry  a  little  with  me  just  for  emergencies/' 
asserted  Brower,  calmly,  and  patted  his  black  bag. 

There  was  a  sudden  and  unanimous  edging  away. 

"  For  the  love  of  Pete  !  "  I  cried.  "  Was  there  some  of  that 
stuff  in  there  all  the  time  Fve  been  carrying  it  around?" 

"It's  packed  good:  it  can't  go  off,"  Artie  reassured  us. 
"  I  know  my  biz." 

"What  in  God's  name  do  you  want  such  stuff  for!"  cried 
Judson. 

"Oh,  just  emergencies,"  answered  Brower,  vaguely,  but 
I  remembered  his  uncanny  skill  in  opening  the  combination 
of  the  safe.  Possibly  that  contract  between  Emory  and 
Hooper  had  come  into  his  hands  through  professional  activ- 
ities. However,  that  did  not  matter. 

"  I  can  make  a  drop  of  soup  go  farther  than  other  men  a 
pint,"  boasted  Artie.  "I'll  show  you:  and  I'll  show  that 


"You'll  probably  get  shot,"  observed  Buck,  watching  him 
closely. 

"  W'at  t'hell,"  observed  Artie  with  an  airy  gesture. 

"It's  the  dope  he  takes,"  I  told  Johnson  aside.  "It  only 
lasts  about  so  long.  Get  him  going  before  it  dies  on  him." 

"  I  see.    Trot  right  along,"  Buck  commanded. 

Taking  this  as  permission  Brower  clapped  heels  to  the 
stallion  and  shot  away  like  an  arrow. 

"Hold  on!  Stop!  Oh,  damn!"  ejaculated  the  senor. 
"  He'll  gum  the  whole  game  !  "  He  spurred  forward  in  pur- 
suit, realized  the  hopelessness  of  trying  to  catch  the  Morgan, 

119 


THE    KILLER 

and  reined  down  again  to  a  brisk  travelling  canter.  We  sur- 
mounted the  long,  slow  rise  this  side  of  Hooper's  in  time  to 
see  a  man  stand  out  in  the  brush,  evidently  for  the  purpose 
of  challenging  the  horseman.  Artie  paid  him  not  the  slight- 
est attention,  but  swept  by  magnificently,  the  great  stallion 
leaping  high  in  his  restrained  vitality.  The  outpost 
promptly  levelled  his  rifle.  We  saw  the  vivid  flash  in  the 
half  light.  B rower  reeled  in  his  saddle,  half  fell,  caught 
himself  by  the  stallion's  mane  and  clung,  swinging  to  and 
fro.  The  horse,  freed  of  control,  tossed  his  head,  laid  back 
his  ears,  and  ran  straight  as  an  arrow  for  the  great  doors 
of  the  ranch. 

We  uttered  a  simultaneous  groan  of  dismay.  Then  with 
one  accord  we  struck  spurs  and  charged  at  full  speed,  grimly 
and  silently.  Against  the  gathering  hush  of  evening  rose 
only  the  drum-roll  of  our  horses'  hoofs  and  the  dust  cloud 
of  their  going.  Except  that  Buck  Johnson,  rising  in  his  stir- 
rups, let  off  three  shots  in  the  air;  and  at  the  signal  from  all 
points  around  the  beleagured  ranch  men  arose  from  the 
brush  and  mounted  concealed  horses,  and  rode  out  into  the 
open  with  rifles  poised. 

The  stallion  thundered  on;  and  the  little  jockey  managed 
to  cling  to  the  saddle,  though  how  he  did  it  none  of  us  could 
tell.  In  the  bottomland  near  the  ranch  he  ran  out  of  the 
deeper  dusk  into  a  band  of  the  strange,  luminous  after-glow 
that  follows  erratically  sunset  in  wide  spaces.  Then  we 
could  see  that  he  was  not  only  holding  his  seat,  but  was 
trying  to  do  something,  just  what  we  could  not  make  out. 
The  reins  were  flying  free,  so  there  was  no  question  of  re- 
gaining control. 

120 


THE    KILLER 

A  shot  flashed  at  him  from  the  ranch;  then  a  second;  after 
which,  as  though  at  command,  the  firing  ceased.  Prob- 
ably the  condition  of  affairs  had  been  recognized. 

All  this  we  saw  from  a  distance.  The  immensity  of  the 
Arizona  country,  especially  at  dusk  when  the  mountains 
withdraw  behind  their  veils  and  mystery  flows  into  the 
bottomlands,  has  always  a  panoramic  quality  that  throws 
small  any  human-sized  activities.  The  ranch  houses  and 
their  attendant  trees  look  like  toys;  the  bands  of  cattle 
and  the  men  working  them  are  as  though  viewed  through 
the  reverse  lenses  of  a  glass;  and  the  very  details  of  mesquite 
or  sacatone  flats,  of  alkali  shallow  or  of  oak  grove  are  blended 
into  broad  washes  of  tone.  But  now  the  distant,  galloping 
horse  with  its  swaying  mannikin  charging  on  the  ranch 
seemed  to  fill  our  world.  The  great  forces  of  portent  that 
hover  aloof  in  the  dusk  of  the  desert  stooped  as  with  a  rush 
of  wings.  The  peaceful,  wide  spaces  and  the  veiled  hills  and 
the  brooding  skies  were  swept  clear.  Crisis  filled  our  souls : 
crisis  laid  her  hand  on  every  living  moving  thing  in  the 
world,  stopping  it  in  its  tracks  so  that  the  very  infinities 
for  a  brief,  wierd  period  seemed  poised  over  the  running 
horse  and  the  swaying,  fumbling  man. 

At  least  that  is  the  way  it  affected  me;  and  subsequent 
talk  leads  me  to  believe  that  that  it  is  how  it  affected  every 
man  jack  of  us.  We  all  had  different  ways  of  expressing  it. 
Windy  Bill  subsequently  remarked:  "I  felt  like  some  old 
Injun  He- God  had  just  told  me  to  crawl  in  my  hole  and  give 
them  that  knew  how  a  chanct." 

But  I  know  we  all  stopped  short,  frozen  in  our  tracks,  and 
stared,  and  I  don't  believe  man,  or  horse,  drew  a  deep  breath. 

121 


TPIE    KILLER 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  stallion  drew  to  the  ranch.  Now 
he  was  within  a  few  yards.  In  another  moment  he  would 
crash  head  on,  at  tremendous  speed,  into  the  closed  mas- 
sive doors.  The  rider  seemed  to  have  regained  somewhat 
of  his  strength.  He  was  sitting  straight  in  the  saddle,  was 
no  longer  clinging.  But  apparently  he  was  making  no  effort 
to  regain  control.  His  head  was  bent  and  he  was  still 
fumbling  at  something.  The  distance  was  too  great  for  us 
to  make  out  what,  but  that  much  we  could  see. 

On  flew  the  stallion  at  undiminished  speed.  He  was 
running  blind;  and  seemingly  nothing  could  save  him  from 
a  crash.  But  at  almost  the  last  moment  the  great  doors 
swung  back.  Those  within  had  indeed  realized  the  situa- 
tion and  were  meeting  it.  At  the  same  instant  Brower  rose 
in  his  stirrups  and  brought  his  arm  forward  in  a  wide,  free 
swing.  A  blinding  glare  flashed  across  the  world.  We  felt 
the  thud  and  heave  of  a  tremendous  explosion.  Dust  oblit- 
erated everything. 

"  Charge,  you  coyotes !   Charge ! "  shrieked  Buck  Johnson. 

And  at  full  speed,  shrieking  like  fiends,  we  swept  across 
flats. 


122 


CHAPTER  XVI 

There  was  no  general  resistance.  We  tumbled  pell  mell 
through  the  breach  into  the  courtyard,  encountering  only 
terror-stricken  wretches  who  cowered  still  dazed  by  the 
unexpectedness  and  force  of  the  explosion.  In  the  excite- 
ment order  and  command  were  temporarily  lost.  The  men 
swarmed  through  the  ranch  buildings  like  locusts.  Senor 
Buck  Johnson  and  the  other  old  timers  let  them  go;  but  I 
noticed  they  themselves  scattered  here  and  there  keeping 
a  restraining  eye  on  activities.  There  was  to  be  no  looting : 
and  that  was  early  made  plain. 

But  before  matters  had  a  chance  to  go  very  far  we  were 
brought  up  all  standing  by  the  sound  of  shots  outside.  A 
rush  started  in  that  direction:  but  immediately  Buck  John- 
son asserted  his  authority  and  took  command.  He  did 
not  intend  to  have  his  men  shot  unnecessarily. 

By  now  it  was  pitch  dark.  A  reconnaissance  disclosed  a 
little  battle  going  on  down  toward  the  water  corrals.  Two 
of  our  men,  straying  in  that  direction,  had  bee*  firad  upon. 
They  had  promptly  gone  down  on  their  bellies  and  were 
shooting  back. 

"I  think  they've  got  down  behind  the  water  troughs," 
one  of  these  men  told  me  as  I  crawled  up  alongside.  "  Cain't 
say  how  many  there  is.  They  shore  do  spit  fire  consider- 
able. I'm  just  cuttin'  loose  where  I  see  the  flash.  When 

123 


THE    KILLER 

I  shoot,  you  prepare  to  move  and  move  lively.  One  of 
those  horned  toads  can  sure  shoot  some;  and  it  ain't  healthy 
to  linger  none  behind  your  own  flash." 

The  boys,  when  I  crawled  back  with  my  report,  were  eager 
to  pile  in  and  rush  the  enemy. 

"Just  put  us  a  hoss-back,  sefior,"  pleaded  Windy  Bill, 
"and  we'll  run  right  over  them  like  a  Shanghai  rooster  over 
a  little  green  snake.  They  can't  hit  nothing  moving  fast 
in  the  dark." 

"You'll  do  just  what  I  say,"  rejoined  Buck  Johnson, 
fiercely.  "Cow  hands  are  scarce,  and  I  don't  aim  to  lose 
one  except  in  the  line  of  business.  If  any  man  gets  shot  to- 
night, he's  out  of  luck.  He'd  better  get  shot  good  and  dead ; 
or  he'll  wish  he  had  been.  That  goes!  There  can't  be  but 
a  few  of  those  renegades  out  there,  and  we'll  tend  to  them 
in  due  order.  Watkins,"  he  addressed  that  old  timer, 
"you  tend  to  this.  Feel  around  cautious.  Fill  up  the  place 
full  of  lead.  Work  your  men  around  through  the  brush 
until  you  get  them  surrounded,  and  then  just  squat  and 
shoot  and  wait  for  morning." 

Watkins  sent  out  a  dozen  of  the  nearest  men  to  circle 
the  water  troughs  in  order  to  cut  off  further  retreat,  if 
that  were  projected.  Then  he  went  about  methodically 
selecting  others  to  whom  he  assigned  various  stations. 

"Now  you  get  a-plenty  of  catteridges,"  he  told  them, 
"  and  you  lay  low  and  shoot  'em  off.  And  if  any  of  you  gets 
shot  I'll  sure  skin  him  alive!" 

In  the  meantime,  the  locomotive  lantern  had  been  lit  so 
that  the  interior  of  the  courtyard  was  thrown  into  brilliant 
light.  Needless  to  say  the  opening  blown  in  the  walls  did 

124 


THE    KILLER 

not  face  toward  the  water  corrals.  Of  Artie  Brower  and 
the  Morgan  stallion  we  found  hardly  a  trace.  They  had 
been  literally  blown  to  pieces.  Not  one  of  us  who  had 
known  him  but  felt  in  his  heart  a  kindly  sorrow  for  the 
strange  little  man.  The  sentry  who  had  fired  at  him  and 
who  had  thus,  indirectly,  precipitated  the  catastrophe,  was 
especially  downcast. 

"I  told  him  to  stop,  and  he  kep'  right  on  a-going,  so  I 
shot  at  him,"  he  explained.  "What  else  was  I  to  do? 
How  was  I  to  know  he  didn't  belong  to  that  gang?  He 
acted  like  it." 

But  when  you  think  of  it  how  could  it  have  come  out 
better?  Poor,  weak,  vice-ridden,  likeable  little  beggar, 
what  could  the  future  have  held  for  him?  And  it  is  prob- 
able that  his  death  saved  many  lives. 

The  prisoners  were  brought  in — some  forty  of  them,  for 
Old  Man  Hooper  maintained  only  the  home  ranch  and  all 
his  cow  hands  as  well  as  his  personal  bravos  were  gathered 
here.  Buck  Johnson  separated  apart  seven  of  them,  and 
ordered  the  others  into  the  stables  under  guard. 

"Bad  hombres,  all  of  them,"  he  observed  to  Jed  Parker. 
"We'll  just  nat'rally  ship  them  across  the  line  very  pronto. 
But  these  seven  are  worse  than  bad  hombres.  We'll  have 
to  see  about  them." 

But  neither  Andreas,  Ramon,  nor  Old  Man  Hooper  him- 
self were  among  those  present. 

" Maybe  they  slipped  out  through  our  guards;  but  I  doubt 
it,"  said  Buck.  "I  believe  we've  identified  that  peevish 
lot  by  the  water  troughs." 

The  firing  went  on  quite  briskly  for  a  while;  then  slack- 

125 


THE    KILLER 

ened,  and  finally  died  to  an  occasioned  burst,  mainly  from 
our  own  side.  Under  our  leader's  direction  the  men  fed 
their  horses  and  made  themselves  comfortable.  I  was  sum- 
moned to  the  living  quarters  to  explain  on  the  spot  the 
events  that  had  gone  before.  Here  we  examined  more 
carefully  and  in  detail  the  various  documents — the  extraor- 
dinary directions  to  Ramon;  the  list  of  prospective  vic- 
tims to  be  offered  at  the  tomb,  so  to  speak,  of  Old  Man 
Hooper;  and  the  copy  of  the  agreement  between  Emory 
and  Hooper.  The  latter,  as  I  had  surmised,  stated  in  so 
many  words  that  it  superceded  and  nullified  an  old  partner- 
ship agreement.  This  started  us  on  a  further  search  which 
was  at  last  rewarded  by  the  discovery  of  that  original  part- 
nership. It  contained,  again  as  I  had  surmised,  the  not- 
uncommon  clause  that  in  case  of  the  death  of  one  or  the 
other  of  the  partners  without  direct  heirs  the  common 
property  should  revert  to  the  other.  I  felt  very  stuck  on 
myself  for  a  good  guesser.  The  only  trouble  was  that  the 
original  of  the  second  agreement  was  lacking:  we  had  only 
a  copy,  and  of  course  without  signatures.  It  will  be  re- 
membered that  Brower  said  he  had  deposited  it  with  a 
third  party,  and  that  third  party  was  to  us  unknown.  We 
could  not  even  guess  in  what  city  he  lived.  Of  course  we 
could  advertise.  But  Windy  Bill  who — leaning  his  long 
figure  against  the  wall — had  been  listening  in  silence — a 
pretty  fair  young  miracle  in  itself — had  a  good  idea,  which 
v/as  the  real  miracle,  in  my  estimation. 

"Look  here,"  he  broke  in,  "if  I've  been  following  the 
plot  of  this  yere  dime  novel  correctly,  it's  plumb  easy.  Just 
catch  Jud — Jud — you  know,  the  editor  of  the  Cochise 

126 


THE    KILLER 

Branding  Iron,  and  get  him  to  telegraph  a  piece  to  the  other 
papers  that  Artie  Brower,  celebrated  jockey  et  ceterer,  has 
met  a  violent  death  at  Hooper's  ranch,  details  as  yet  un- 
known. That's  the  catch-word,  as  I  savey  it.  When  this 
yere  third  party  sees  that,  he  goes  and  records  the  paper, 
and  there  you  are!" 

Windy  leaned  back  dramatically  and  looked  exceedingly 
pleased  with  himself. 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  approved  Buck,  briefly,  which  disap- 
pointed Windy,  who  was  looking  for  high  encomium. 

At  this  moment  a  messenger  came  in  from  the  firing 
party  to  report  that  apparently  all  opposition  had  ceased. 
At  least  there  had  been  for  some  time  no  shooting  from  the 
direction  of  the  water  troughs;  a  fact  concealed  from  us  by 
the  thickness  of  the  ranch  walls.  Buck  Johnson  imme- 
diately went  out  to  confer  with  Watkins. 

"I  kind  of  think  we've  got  'em  all,"  was  the  latter's 
opinion.  "We  haven't  had  a  sound  out  of  'em  for  a  half 
hour.  It  may  be  a  trick,  of  course." 

"Sure  they  haven't  slipped  by  you?"  suggested  the 
senor. 

"Pretty  certain.    We've  got  a  close  circle." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  take  chances  in  the  dark.  Just  lay 
low  'till  morning." 

We  returned  to  the  ranch  house  where,  after  a  little 
further  discussion,  I  bedded  down  and  immediately  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep.  This  was  more  and  longer  continued 
excitement  than  I  was  used  to. 

I  was  afoot  with  the  first  stirrings  of  dawn,  you  may  be 
sure,  and  out  to  join  the  party  that  moved  with  infinite 

127 


THE    KILLER 

precaution  on  the  water  troughs  as  soon  as  it  was  light 
enough  to  see  clearly.  We  found  them  riddled  with  bullets 
and  the  water  all  run  out.  Gleaming  brass  cartridges  scat- 
tered, catching  the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  attested  the  vigour 
of  the  defence.  Four  bodies  lay  huddled  on  the  ground 
under  the  partial  shelter  of  the  troughs.  I  saw  Ramon, 
his  face  frowning  and  sinister  even  in  death,  his  right  hand 
still  grasping  tenaciously  the  stock  of  his  Winchester;  and 
Andreas  flat  on  his  face;  and  two  others  whom  I  did  not 
recognize.  Ramon  had  been  hit  at  least  four  times.  But 
of  Hooper  himself  was  no  hide  nor  hair!  So  certain  had  we 
been  that  he  had  escaped  to  this  spot  with  his  familiars 
that  we  were  completely  taken  aback  at  his  absence. 

"We  got  just  about  as  much  sense  as  a  bunch  of  sheep- 
men!" cried  Buck  Johnson,  exasperated.  "He's  probably 
been  hiding  out  somewhere  about  the  place.  God  knows 
where  he  is  by  now!" 

But  just  as  we  were  about  to  return  to  the  ranch  house  we 
were  arrested  by  a  shout  from  one  of  the  cowboys  who  had 
been  projecting  around  the  neighbourhood.  He  came 
running  to  us.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  blade  of  sacatone  on 
which  he  pointed  out  a  single  dark  spot  about  the  size  of 
the  head  of  a  pin.  Buck  seized  it  and  examined  it  closely. 

"Blood,  all  right,"  he  said  at  last.  "Where  did  you  get 
this,  son?" 

The  man,  a  Chiracahua  hand  named  Curley  something- 
or-other,  indicated  a  sacatone  bottom  a  hundred  yards  to  the 
west. 

"You  got  good  eyes,  son,"  Buck  complimented  him. 
"Think  you  can  make  out  the  trail?" 

128 


THE    KILLER 

"Do'no,"  said  Curley.  "Used  to  do  a  considerable  of 
tracking." 

"Horses!"  commanded  Buck. 

We  followed  Curley  afoot  while  several  men  went  to 
saddle  up.  On  the  edge  of  the  two-foot  jump-off  we  grouped 
ourselves  waiting  while  Curley,  his  brows  knit  tensely, 
quartered  here  and  there  like  a  setter  dog.  He  was  a  good 
trailer,  you  could  see  that  in  a  minute.  He  went  at  it  right. 
After  quite  a  spell  he  picked  up  a  rock  and  came  back  to 
show  it.  I  should  never  have  noticed  anything — merely 
another  tiny  black  spot  among  other  spots — but  Buck 
nodded  instantly  he  saw  it. 

"It's  about  ten  rods  west  of  whar  I  found  the  grass/' 
said  Curley.  "Looks  like  he's  headed  for  that  water  in 
Cockeye  Basin.  From  thar  he  could  easy  make  Cochise 
when  he  got  rested." 

"Looks  likely,"  agreed  Buck.  "Can't  you  find  no  foot- 
prints?" 

"Too  much  tramped  up  by  cowboys  and  other  jack- 
asses," said  Curley.  "It'll  come  easier  when  we  get  out- 
side this  yere  battlefield." 

He  stood  erect,  sizing  up  the  situation  through  half- 
squinted  eyes. 

"You-all  wait  here,"  he  decided.  "Chances  are  he  kept 
right  on  up  the  broad  wash." 

He  mounted  one  of  the  horses  that  had  now  arrived  and 
rode  at  a  lope  to  a  point  nearly  half  a  mile  west.  There  he 
dismounted  and  tied  his  horse  to  the  ground.  After  rather 
a  prolonged  search  he  raised  his  hand  over  his  head  and 
described  several  small  horizontal  circles  in  the  air. 

129 


THE    KILLER 

"Been  in  the  army,  have  you?"  muttered  Buck;  "well,  I 
will  say  you're  a  handy  sort  of  leather-leg  to  have  around. 
He  gave  the  soldier  signal  for  'assemble',"  he  answered  Jed 
Parker's  question. 

We  rode  over  to  join  Curley. 

"It's  all  right;  he  came  this  way,"  said  the  latter;  but  he 
did  not  trouble  to  show  us  indications.  I  am  a  pretty  fair 
game  trailer  myself,  but  I  could  make  out  nothing. 

We  proceeded  slowly,  Curley  afoot  leading  his  horse. 
The  direction  continued  to  be  toward  Cockeye.  Sometimes 
we  could  all  see  plain  footprints;  again  the  trail  was,  at 
least  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  a  total  loss.  Three  times 
we  found  blood,  once  in  quite  a  splash.  Occasionally  even 
Curley  was  at  fault  for  a  few  moments;  but  in  general  he 
moved  forward  at  a  rapid  walk. 

"This  Curley  person  is  all  right,"  observed  Windy  Bill 
after  a  while,  "I  was  brung  up  to  find  my  way  about,  and 
I  can  puzzle  out  most  anywhere  a  critter  has  gone  and  left 
a  sign;  but  this  yere  Curley  can  track  a  humming  bird  acrost 
a  granite  boulder! " 

After  a  little  while  Curley  stopped  for  us  to  catch 
up. 

"Seems  to  me  no  manner  of  doubt  but  what  he's  headed 
for  Cockeye,"  he  said.  "There  ain't  no  other  place  for  him 
to  go  out  this  way.  I  reckon  I  can  pick  up  enough  of  this 
trail  just  riding  along.  If  we  don't  find  no  sign  at  Cockeye, 
we  can  just  naturally  back  track  and  pick  up  where  he 
turned  off.  We'll  save  time  that-away,  and  he's  had  plenty 
of  time  to  get  thar  and  back  again." 

So  Curley  mounted  and  we  rode  on  at  a  walk  on  the  horse 

130 


THE    KILLER 

trail  that  led  up  the  broad,  shallow  wash  that  came  out  of 
Cockeye. 

Curley  led,  of  course.  Then  rode  Buck  Johnson  and 
Watkins  and  myself.  I  had  horned  in  on  general  principles, 
and  nobody  kicked.  I  suppose  they  thought  my  general  en- 
tanglement with  this  extraordinary  series  of  events  entitled 
me  to  more  than  was  coming  to  me  as  ordinary  cow  hand. 
For  a  long  time  we  proceeded  in  silence.  Then,  as  we 
neared  the  hills,  Buck  began  to  lay  out  his  plan. 

"When  we  come  up  on  Cockeye,"  he  was  explaining,  "I 
want  you  to  take  a  half  dozen  men  or  so  and  throw  around 
the  other  side  on  the  Cochise  trail 

His  speech  was  cut  short  by  the  sound  of  a  rifle  shot. 
The  country  was  still  flat,  unsuited  for  concealment  or  de- 
fence. We  were  riding  carelessly.  A  shivering  shock  ran 
through  my  frame  and  my  horse  plunged  wildly.  For  an 
instant  I  thought  I  must  be  hit,  then  I  saw  that  the  bullet 
had  cut  off  cleanly  the  horn  of  my  saddle — within  two 
inches  of  my  stomach! 

Surprise  paralyzed  us  for  th£  fraction  of  a  second.  Then 
we  charged  the  rock  pile  from  which  the  shot  had  come. 

We  found  there  Old  Man  Hooper  seated  in  a  pool  of  his 
own  blood.  He  had  been  shot  through  the  body  and  was 
dead.  His  rifle  lay  across  a  rock,  trained  carefully  on  the 
trail.  How  long  he  had  sat  there  nursing  the  vindictive 
spark  of  his  vitality  nobody  will  ever  know — certainly  for 
some  hours.  And  the  shot  delivered  had  taken  from  him 
the  last  flicker  of  life. 

"By  God,  he  was  sure  game!"  Buck  Johnson  pro- 
nounced his  epitaph. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

We  cleaned  up  at  the  ranch  and  herded  our  prisoners 
together  and  rode  back  to  Box  Springs.  The  seven  men 
who  had  been  segregated  from  the  rest  by  Buck  Johnson 
were  not  among  them.  I  never  found  out  what  had  become 
of  them  nor  who  had  executed  whatever  decrees  had  been 
pronounced  against  them.  There  at  the  home  ranch  we 
found  Miss  Emory  very  anxious,  excited,  and  interested. 
Buck  and  the  others  in  authority  left  me  to  inform  her  of 
what  had  taken  place. 

I  told  you  some  time  back  that  this  is  no  love  story;  but 
I  may  as  well  let  you  in  on  the  whole  sequel  to  it,  and  get  it 
off  my  chest.  Windy's  scheme  brought  immediate  results. 
The  partnership  agreement  was  recorded,  and  after  the  usual 
legal  red-tape  Miss  Emory  came  into  the  property.  She 
had  to  have  a  foreman  for  the  ranch,  and  hanged  if  she 
didn't  pick  on  me!  Think  of  that;  me  an  ordinary,  forty- 
dollar  cow  puncher!  I  tried  to  tell  her  that  it  was  all  plumb 
foolishness,  that  running  a  big  cattle  ranch  was  a  man-sized 
job  and  took  experience,  but  she  wouldn't  listen.  Women 
are  like  that.  She'd  seen  me  blunder  in  and  out  of  a  series 
of  adventures  and  she  thought  that  settled  it,  that  I  was  a 
great  man.  After  arguing  with  her  quite  some  time  about 
it,  I  had  to  give  in;  so  I  spit  on  my  hands  and  sailed  in  to 
do  my  little  darndest.  I  expected  the  men  who  realized 

132 


THE    KILLER 

fully  how  little  I  knew  about  it  all  would  call  me  a  brash 
damn  fool  or  anyway  give  me  the  horse  laugh;  but  I 
fooled  myself.  They  were  mightily  decent.  Jed  Parker 
or  Sam  Wooden  or  Windy  Bill  were  always  just  hap- 
pening by  and  roosting  on  the  corral  rails.  Then  if  I  lis- 
tened to  them — and  I  always  did — I  learned  a  heap  about 
what  I  ought  to  do.  Why,  even  Buck  Johnson  himself  came 
and  stayed  at  the  ranch  with  me  for  more  than  a  week  at  the 
time  of  the  fall  round-up:  and  he  never  went  near  the  riding, 
but  just  projected  around  here  and  there  looking  over  my 
works  and  ways.  And  in  the  evenings  he  would  smoke  and 
utter  grave  words  of  executive  wisdom  which  I  treasured 
and  profited  by. 

If  a  man  gives  his  whole  mind  to  it,  he  learns  practical 
things  fast.  Even  a  dumb-head  Wop  gets  his  English 
rapidly  when  he's  where  he  has  to  talk  that  or  nothing. 
Inside  of  three  years  I  had  that  ranch  paying,  and  paying 
big.  It  was  due  to  my  friends  whom  I  had  been  afraid  of, 
and  I'm  not  ashamed  to  say  so.  There's  Herefords  on  our 
range  now  instead  of  that  lot  of  heady  long-horns  Old  Man 
Hooper  used  to  run;  and  we're  growing  alfalfa  and  hay  in 
quantity  for  fattening  when  they  come  in  off  the  ranges. 
Got  considerable  hogs,  too,  and  hogs  are  high — nothing  but 
pure  blood  Poland.  I  figure  I've  added  fully  fifty  per 
cent.,  if  not  more,  to  the  value  of  the  ranch  as  it  came  to 
me.  No,  I'm  not  bragging;  I'm  explaining  how  came  it  I 
married  my  wife  and  figured  to  keep  my  self-respect.  I'd 
have  married  her  anyhow.  We've  been  together  now  fifteen 
years,  and  I'm  here  to  say  that  she's  a  humdinger  of  a  girl, 
game  as  a  badger,  better  looking  every  day,  knows  cattle 

133 


THE    KILLER 

and  alfalfa  and  sunsets  and  sonatas  and  Poland  hogs — but 
I  said  this  was  no  love  story,  and  it  isn't! 

The  day  following  the  taking  of  the  ranch  and  the  death  of 
Old  Man  Hooper  we  put  our  prisoners  on  horses  and  started 
along  with  them  toward  the  Mexican  border.  Just  out- 
side of  Soda  Springs  whom  should  we  meet  up  with  but  big 
Tom  Thome,  the  sheriff. 

"Evenin',  Buck,"  said  he. 

"Evening "  replied  the  senor. 

"What  you  got  here?" 

"This  is  a  little  band  of  religious  devotees  fleein'  per- 
secution," said  Buck. 

"And  what  are  you  up  to  with  them?"  asked  Thorne. 

"We're  protecting  them  out  of  Christian  charity  from  the 
dangers  of  the  road  until  they  reach  the  Promised  Land." 

"I  see,"  said  Thorne,  reflectively.  "Whereabouts  lays 
this  Promised  Land?" 

"About  sixty  mile  due  south." 

"You  sure  to  get  them  all  there  safe  and  sound — I  sup- 
pose you'd  be  willing  to  guarantee  that  nothing's  going  to 
happen  to  them,  Buck?" 

"I  give  my  word  on  that,  Tom." 

"All  right,"  said  Thorne,  evidently  relieved.  He  threw 
his  leg  over  the  horn  of  his  saddle.  "How  about  that  little 
dispossession  matter,  deputy?  You  ain't  reported  on  that." 

"It's  all  done  and  finished." 

"Have  any  trouble?" 

"Nary  trouble,"  said  Senor  Buck  Johnson,  blandly,  "all 
went  off  quiet  and  serene." 


THE    ROAD    AGENT 

CHAPTER  I 

The  Sierra  Nevadas  of  California  are  very  wide  and  very 
high.  Kingdoms  could  be  lost  among  the  denies  of  their 
ranges.  Kingdoms  have  been  found  there.  One  of  them 
was  Bright's  Cove. 

It  happened  back  in  the  seventies.  Old  Man  Bright 
was  prospecting.  He  had  come  up  from  the  foothills  ac- 
companied by  a  new  but  stolid  Indian  wife.  After  he  had 
grubbed  around  a  while  on  old  Italian  bar  and  had  succeeded 
in  washing  out  a  little  colour,  she  woke  up  and  took  a  slight 
interest  in  the  proceedings. 

"You  like  catch  dat?"  she  grunted,  contemptuously. 
"Heap  much  over  dere!" 

She  waved  an  arm.  Old  Man  Bright  girded  his  loins  and 
packed  his  jackass.  After  incredible  scramblings  the  two 
succeeded  in  surmounting  the  ranges  and  in  dropping  sheer 
to  the  mile-wide  round  valley  through  which  flowed  the 
river — the  broad,  swift  mountain  river,  with  the  snow-white 
rapids  and  the  swirling  translucent  green  of  very  thick  grass. 
They  were  very  glad  to  reach  the  grass  at  the  bottom,  but 
a  little  doubtful  on  how  to  get  out.  The  big  mountains  took 
root  at  the  very  edge  of  the  tiny  round  valley;  the  river 
flowed  out  of  a  gorge  at  one  end  and  into  a  gorge  at  the  other. 

155 


THE    KILLER 

"Guess  the  sun  don't  rise  here  'til  next  morning/'  com- 
mented Old  Man  Bright.  The  squaw  was  too  busy  even  to 
grunt. 

In  six  years  Old  Man  Bright  was  worth  six  million  dollars, 
all  taken  from  the  ledges  of  Bright's  Cove.  Of  this  amount  he 
had  been  forced  to  let  go  of  a  small  proportion  for  mill  machin- 
ery and  labour.  He  had  also  invested  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars  in  a  road.  It  was  a  steep  road,  and  a  picturesque. 
It  wound  in  and  out  and  around,  by  loops,  lacets,  and  hair- 
pins, dropping  down  the  face  of  the  mountain  in  unheard- 
of  grades  and  turns.  Nothing  was  ever  hauled  up  it,  save 
yellow  bars  of  bullion — so  that  did  not  matter.  Down  it, 
with  a  shriek  of  brakes,  a  cloud  of  dust,  a  clank  of  harness 
and  a  rumble  of  oaths,  came  divers  matters,  such  as  machin- 
ery, glassware,  whiskey,  mirrors,  ammunition,  and  pianos. 
From  any  one  of  a  dozen  bold  points  on  this  road  one  could 
see  far  down  and  far  up  its  entire  white,  thread-like  length. 
The  tiny  crawling  teams  each  with  its  puff  of  dust  crawling 
with  it;  the  great  tumbled  peaks  of  the  Sierras;  the  river  so 
far  below  as  to  resemble  a  little  stream,  the  round  Cove 
with  its  toy  houses  and  its  distant  ant-like  industry — 
all  these  were  plainly  to  be  seized  by  a  glance  of  whatever 
eye  cared  to  look. 

As  time  went  on  a  great  many  teams  and  pack  trains  and 
saddle  animals  climbed  up  and  down  that  road.  Bright's 
Cove  became  quite  a  town.  Old  Man  Bright  made  six 
millions;  other  men  aggregated  nearly  four  millions  more; 
still  others  acquired  deep  holes  and  a  deficit.  It  might  be 
remarked  in  passing  that  the  squaw  acquired  experience,  a 
calico  dress  or  so,  and  a  final  honourable  discharge.  Being 

136 


THE    ROAD    AGENT 

an  Indian  she  quite  cheerfully  went  back  to  pounding  acorns 
in  a  metate. 

In  the  fifth  year  of  prosperity  there  drifted  into  camp 
two  men,  possessed  of  innocence,  three  mules,  and  a  thou- 
sand dollars.  They  retained  the  mules;  and,  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed, at  least  a  portion  of  the  innocence. 

The  thousand  dollars  went  to  the  purchase  of  the  Lost 
Dog  from  Barney  Fallan.  The  Lost  Dog  consisted  quite 
simply  of  a  hole  in  the  ground  guarded  by  an  excellent  five 
stamp-mill.  The  latter's  existence  could  only  be  explained 
by  the  incurable  optimism  of  Barney  Fallan — certainly 
not  by  the  contents  of  the  hole  in  the  ground.  To  the  older 
men  of  the  camp  it  seemed  a  shame,  for  the  newcomers 
were  nice,  fresh-cheeked,  clear-eyed  lads  to  whom  every- 
thing was  new  and  strange  and  wonderful,  their  enthusiasm 
was  contagious,  and  their  cheerful  command  of  vernacular 
exceedingly  heart-warming.  California  John,  then  a  man 
in  his  forties,  tried  to  head  off  the  deal. 

"Look  here,  son,"  said  he  to  Gaynes.  "Don't  do  it. 
There's  nothin'  in  it.  Take  my  word." 

"But  Fallan's  got  a  good  stamp-mill  all  ready  for  busi- 
ness, and  the  ledge " 

"Son,"  said  California  John,  "every  once  in  a  while  the 
Lord  gets  to  experimentin'  makin'  brains  for  a  new  species 
of  jackass,  and  when  he  runs  out  of  donkeys  to  put  'em 

"Meaning  me?"  demanded  Gaynes,  his  fair  skin  turning 
a  deep  red. 

"Not  at  all.    Meanin'  Barney  Fallan." 
Nevertheless  the  Babes,  as  the  Gaynes  brothers  were 


THE    KILLER 

speedily  nicknamed,  paid  over  their  good  thousand  for 
Barney's  worthless  prospect  with  the  imposing  but  ridicu- 
lous stamp-mill.  There  they  set  cheerfully  to  work.  After 
a  week's  desperate  and  clanking  experiment  they  got  the 
machinery  under  way  and  began  to  run  rock  through  the 
crushers. 

"It  ain't  even  ore!"  expostulated  California  John. 
"Why,  son,  it's  only  country  rock.  Go  down  on  your  shaft 
until  you  strike  a  pan  test,  anyway!  You're  wasting  time 
and  fuel  and — Oh,  hell! "  he  broke  off  hopelessly  at  the  sight 
of  the  two  cherubic  faces  upturned  respectful  but  uncon- 
vinced. 

"But  you  never  can  tell  where  you  will  find  gold,"  broke 
in  Jimmy,  eagerly.  "That's  been  proved  over  and  over 
again.  I  heard  one  fellow  say  once  that  they  thought  they'd 
never  find  gold  in  hornblende.  But  they  did." 

California  John  stumped  home  in  indignant  disgust. 

"Damn  little  ijits!"  he  exploded.  "Pigheaded!  Stub- 
born as  a  pair  of  mules! "  The  recollection  of  the  scrubbed 
red  cheeks,  the  clear,  puppy-dog,  frank  brown  eyes,  the  close- 
curling  brown  hair,  forced  his  lips  to  a  wry  grin.  "Just  like 
I  was  at  that  age,"  he  admitted.  He  sighed.  "Well, 
they'll  drop  their  little  pile,  of  course.  The  only  ray  of 
hope's  the  experience  that  old  Bible  fellow  had  with  them 
turkey  buzzards — or  was  it  ravens?" 

The  Babes  pecked  away  for  about  a  month,  full  of  tribula- 
tion and  questions.  They  seemed  to  depend  almost  equally 
on  optimism  and  chance,  in  both  of  which  they  had  supreme 
faith.  A  huge  horseshoe  was  tacked  over  the  door  of  the 
stamp-mill.  Jimmy  Gaynes  always  spat  over  his  right 

138 


THE    ROAD    AGENT 

shoulder  before  doing  a  day's  work.  They  never  walked 
under  the  short  ladders  leading  to  the  hoppers.  Neither 
would  they  permit  visitors  to  their  shafts.  To  California 
John  and  his  friend  Tibbetts  they  interposed  scandalized 
objections. 

"It's  bad  luck  to  let  another  man  in  your  shaft!"  cried 
George.  "I'm  no  high-brow  on  this  mining  proposition, 
but  I  know  enough  for  that." 

"Bad  as  playing  opposite  a  cross-eyed  man,"  said  Jimmy. 

"Or  holding  Jacks  full  on  Eights,"  supplemented  George, 
conclusively. 

"You're about  as  wise  as  a  treeful  of  owls," said  California 
John,  sarcastically.  "But,  Lord  love  you,  I  ain't  cherishin' 
any  very  burnin'  ambition  to  crawl  down  your  snake  hole." 

The  Babes  used  up  their  provisions;  they  went  about  as 
far  as  they  could  on  credit;  they  harrowed  the  feelings  of 
the  community — and  then,  in  a  very  mild  way,  they  struck 
it.  Together  they  drifted  down  the  single  street  of  the 
camp,  arm  in  arm,  an  elaborate  nonchalance  steadying 
their  steps.  Near  the  horse  trough  they  paused. 

"  Gold, "  said  Jimmy,  oracularly,  to  George,  "is  where  you 
find  it." 

"Likewise  horse  sense,"  quoth  George. 

Whereupon  they  whooped  wildly  and  descended  on  the 
astonished  group.  To  it  they  exhibited  yellow  dust  to  the 
value  of  an  hundred  dollars.  "And  more  where  that  came 
from,"  said  they. 

"What  kind  of  rock  did  you  find  it  in?"  demanded  Tib- 
betts, after  he  had  recovered  his  breath  from  the  youngsters' 
enthusiastic  man-handling. 


THE    KILLER 

"Oh,  a  kind  of  red,  pasty-looking  rock,"  said  they. 

"Show  us,"  demanded  the  miners. 

"What?"  cried  Jimmy,  astounded,  "and  give  Old  Man 
Luck  the  backhand  slap  just  when  he's  decided  to  buy  a 
corner  lot  in  the  Gaynes  Addition?  Not  on  your  saccharine 
existence!" 

"But  well  show  you  some  more  of  this  to-morrow  Q.  M.," 
said  George. 

They  bought  drinks  all  round,  and  paid  their  various  bills, 
and  departed  again  feverishly  to  the  Lost  Dog  whence  rose 
smoke  and  clankings.  And  next  day,  sure  enough,  they 
left  their  work  just  long  enough  to  exhibit  another  respect- 
able little  clean-up  of  fifty  dollars  or  so. 

"And  we're  just  getting  into  it!"  said  George,  triumph- 
antly. 

California  John  and  all  the  rest  of  his  good  friends  rejoiced 
exceedingly  and  genuinely.  They  liked  the  Babes.  The 
little  strike  of  the  Lost  Dog  quite  overshadowed  in  import- 
ance the  fact  that  old  man  Bright's  "Clarice"  had  run  into 
a  fabulously  rich  pocket. 

The  end  of  the  month  drew  near.  The  Lost  Dog  had 
produced  nearly  eight  hundred  dollars.  The  Babes  waxed 
important  and  talked  largely  of  their  moneyed  interests. 

"I  think,"  said  Jimmy,  importantly,  "that  we  will  decide 
to  keep  three  hundred  dollars  to  boost  the  game;  and  nail 
down  the  rest  where  moths  won't  corrupt.  Where  do  you 
fellows  salt  your  surplus,  anyway?  " 

"There's  an  express  goes  out  pretty  soon,"  someone  ex- 
plained, "with  the  clean-up  of  the  Clarice.  We  send  our 
dust  out  with  that;  and  I  reckon  you  can  fix  it  with  Bright." 

140 


THE    ROAD    AGENT 

They  saw  Bright,  but  ran  up  against  an  unexpected 
difficulty.  Old  Man  Bright  received  them  with  considera- 
ble surliness.  He  considered  himself  as  the  originator,  dis- 
coverer, inventor,  and  almost  the  proprietor  of  Bright's  Cove 
and  all  it  contained.  Therefore,  when  he  first  heard  of  the 
new  strike,  he  walked  up  to  the  Lost  Dog  to  see  what  it 
looked  like.  The  Babes,  panic  stricken  at  the  intended 
affront  to  "Old  Man  Luck,"  headed  him  off.  Bright  had 
not  the  least  belief  in  the  reason  given.  He  surveyed  them 
with  disfavour. 

"  I  can't  take  your  package/'  he  told  them.  "  Send  it  out 
yourself." 

"And  that  old  skunk  has  cleaned  up  a  hundred  thousand 
this  month!"  complained  Jimmy,  pathetically,  to  the  group 
around  the  horse  trough.  "And  he  won't  even  take  a  pore 
little  five  hundred  package  of  dust  out  to  some  suffering 
bank!  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  cache  it  in  a  tomato  can  for 
Johnson's  old  billy  goat  to  chew  up." 

"Bring  it  over  and  I'll  shove  it  in  with  mine,"  suggested 
California  John. 

So  it  was  done.  The  express,  carrying  nearly  four  hundred 
pounds  of  gold  dust,  set  forth  over  the  steep  road.  In  two 
hours  ths  driver  and  messenger  sailed  in,  bung-eyed  with 
excitement.  They  had  been  held  up  by  a  single  road  agent. 

"He  come  out  right  on  that  point  of  rocks  where  you  can 
see  the  whole  valley,"  said  the  driver  in  answer  to  many 
questions,  "right  where  the  heavy  grade  is  and  the  thick 
chaparral.  We  was  busy  climbing;  and  he  had  us  before  we 
could  wink.  Made  us  drop  off  the  dust  and  'bout  face.  He 
was  a  big,  tall  feller;  and  had  a  sawed-off  Winchester. 

141 


THE    KILLER 

Once,  when  we  stopped,  he  dropped  a  bullet  right  behind 
us.  He  must  have  watched  us  all  the  way  to  camp." 

The  camp  turned  out.  As  the  men  passed  the  Lost  Dog 
someone  yelled  to  the  Babes.  George,  covered  with  mud, 
came  to  the  door  of  the  mill. 

"  Gee! "  said  he.  "Lucky  we  saved  out  that  three  hundred. 
I'm  powerful  sorry  for  that  suffering  bank.  I'll  join  you 
as  soon  as  I  can  get  Jimmy  up  out  of  the  shaft."  Before 
the  party  had  gone  a  mile  they  were  joined  by  the  brothers 
boyishly  eager  over  this  new  excitement. 

The  men  toiled  up  the  road  to  where  the  robbery  had 
taken  place.  Plainly  to  be  seen  were  the  marks  of  the 
man's  boots.  The  tracks  of  a  single  horse,  walking,  followed 
the  man. 

"He  packed  off  the  dust,  and  he  had  an  almighty  big 
horse  to  carry  it,"  pronounced  someone. 

They  followed  the  trail.  It  led  a  half  mile  to  a  broad 
sheet  of  rock.  There  it  disappeared.  On  one  side  the  bank 
rose  twenty  or  thirty  feet.  On  the  other  it  fell  away 
nearly  a  hundred.  On  the  other  side  of  the  sheet  of  rock 
stretched  the  dusty  road  unbroken  by  anything  more  re- 
cent than  the  wheel-tracks  of  the  day  before.  It  was 
as  though  man  and  horse  had  taken  unto  themselves 
wings. 

Immediately  Bright  took  active  charge  of  the  posse. 

"Stand  here,  on  this  rock,"  he  commanded.  "This 
road's  been  tracked  up  too  much  already.  You,  John,  and 
Tibbetts  and  Simmins,  there,  come  'long  with  me  to  see 
what  you  can  make  out." 

The  old  mountaineers  retraced  their  steps,  examining 

142 


THE    ROAD    AGENT 

carefully  every  inch  of  the  ground.  They  returned  vastly 
puzzled. 

"No  sabe,"  California  John  summed  up  their  investiga- 
tions. "There's  the  man's  track  leadin'  his  hoss.  The 
boss  had  on  new  shoes,  and  the  robber  did  his  own  shoeing. 
So  we  ain't  got  any  blacksmiths  to  help  us." 

"How  do  you  know  he  shod  the  horse  himself?"  asked 
Jimmy  Gaynes. 

"Shoes  just  alike  on  front  and  back  feet.  Shows  he 
must  just  have  tacked  on  ready-made  shoes.  A  blacksmith 
shapes  'em  different.  Those  tracks  leads  right  up  to  this 
rock :  and  here  they  quit.  If  you  can  figger  how  a  horse,  a 
man,  and  nigh  four  hundredweight  of  gold  dust  got  off 
this  rock,  I'll  be  obleeged." 

The  men  looked  up  at  the  perpendicular  cliff  to  their 
right;  over  the  sheer  precipice  at  their  left;  and  upon  the 
untracked  deep,  white  dust  ahead. 

"Furthermore,"  California  John  went  on,  impressively, 
after  a  moment,  "where  did  that  man  and  that  hoss  come 
from  in  the  beginning?  Not  from  up  this  way.  They's 
no  fresh  tracks  comin'  down  the  road  no  more  than  they's 
fresh  tracks  goin'  up.  Not  from  camp.  They's  no  tracks 
whatsomever  on  the  road  below,  except  our'n  and  the  stage 
outfit's." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?"  asked  Jimmy,  his  eyes  shining 
with  interest. 

"Sartin  sure,"  replied  California  John,  positively.  "We 
didn't  take  no  chances  on  that." 

"Then  he  must  have  come  into  the  road  from  up  the 
mountain  or  down  the  mountain." 

143 


THE    KILLER 

"Where?"  demanded  California  John.  "A  man  afoot 
might  scramble  down  in  one  or  two  places;  but  not  a  hoss. 
They  ain't  no  tracks  either  side  the  muss-up  where  the  ex- 
press was  stopped.  And  at  that  p'int  the  mountain  is 
straight  up  and  down,  like  it  is  here." 

They  talked  it  over,  and  argued  it,  and  regxamined  the 
evidence,  but  without  avail.  The  stubborn  facts  remained : 
Between  the  hold-up  and  the  sheet  of  rock  was  one  set  of 
tracks  going  one  way;  elsewhere,  nothing. 


144 


CHAPTER  II 

Nearly  a  year  passed.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  very 
tangible  loss  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  the 
little  community  at  Bright's  Cove  might  almost  have  come 
to  doubt  the  evidence  of  their  senses  and  the  accuracy  of 
their  memories,  so  fantastic  on  sober  reflection  did  all  the 
circumstances  become.  Even  the  indisputable  four  hun- 
dred pounds  of  gold  could  not  quite  avert  an  unconfessed 
suspicion  of  the  uncanny.  Miners  are  superstitious  folk. 
Old  Man  Bright  remembered  the  parting  and  involved 
curses  of  his  squaw  before  she  went  back  to  her  acorns  and 
pine  nuts.  To  Tibbetts  alone  he  imparted  a  vague  hint 
of  the  imaginings  into  which  he  had  fallen.  But  he  brooded 
much,  seeking  a  plausible  theory  that  would  not  force  him 
back  on  the  powers  of  darkness.  This  he  did  not  find. 

Nor  did  any  other  man.  It  remained  a  mystery,  a  single 
bizarre  anomaly  in  the  life  of  the  camp.  For  some  time 
thereafter  the  express  went  heavily  guarded.  The  road 
was  patrolled.  Jimmy  or  George  Gaynes  in  person  ac- 
companied each  shipment  of  dust.  Their  pay  streak  held 
out,  increased  steadily  in  value.  They  would  hire  no  assist- 
ance for  the  actual  mining  in  the  shaft,  although  they  had 
several  hands  to  work  at  the  mill.  One  month  they  cleaned 
up  twelve  thousand  dollars. 

"You  bet  I'm  going,"  said  Jimmy,  "I  don't  care  if  it  is 

145 


THE    KILLER 

only  a  little  compared  to  what  Bright  and  you  fellows  are 
sending.  It's  a  heap  sight  to  us,  and  I'm  going  to  see  it 
safe  to  the  city.  No  more  spooks  in  mine.  I  got  my 
fingers  crossed.  Allah  skazallalum!  I  don't  know  what  a 
ghost  would  want  with  cash  assets,  but  they  seemed  to  use 
George's  and  my  little  old  five  hundred,  all  right." 

Twelve  months  went  by.  Two  expresses  a  month  toiled 
up  the  road.  Nothing  happened.  Finally  Jimmy  decided 
that  four  good  working  days  a  month  were  a  good  deal  to  pay 
for  apparently  useless  supervision.  Three  men  comprised 
the  shot-gun  guard.  They,  with  the  driver,  were  considered 
ample. 

"You'll  have  to  get  on  without  me,"  said  Jimmy  to  them 
in  farewell.  "Be  good  boys.  We've  got  the  biggest 
clean-up  yet  aboard  you." 

They  started  on  the  twenty-fifth  trip  since  the  hold-up. 
After  a  time,  far  up  the  mountain  was  heard  a  single  shot. 
Inside  of  two  hours  the  express  drew  sorrowfully  into  camp. 
The  driver  appeared  to  be  alone.  In  the  bottom  of  the 
wagon  were  the  three  guards  weak  and  sick.  The  gold 
sacks  were  very  much  absent. 

"Done  it  again,"  said  the  driver.  "Ain't  more  than  got 
started  afore  the  whole  outfit's  down  with  the  belly-ache. 
Too  much  of  that  cursed  salmon.  Told  'em  so.  I  didn't 
eat  none.  That  road  agent  hit  her  lucky  this  trip  sure. 
He  was  all  organized  for  business.  Never  showed  himself 
at  all.  Just  opened  fire.  Sent  a  bullet  through  the  top 
of  my  hat.  He's  either  a  damn  good  shot  or  a  damn  poor 
one.  I  hung  up  both  hands  and  yelled  we  was  down  and 
out.  What  could  I  do?  This  outfit  couldn't  a  fit  a  bumble 

146 


THE    ROAD    AGENT 

bee.  And  I  couldn't  git  away,  or  git  hold  of  no  gun,  or 
see  anything  to  shoot,  if  I  did.  He  was  behind  that  big 
rock." 

The  men  nodded.  They  were  many  of  them  hard  hit, 
but  they  had  lived  too  long  in  the  West  not  to  recognize 
the  justice  of  the  driver's  implied  contention  that  he  had 
done  his  best. 

"He  told  me  to  throw  out  them  sacks,  and  to  be  damn 
quick  about  it, ' '  went  on  the  driver.  ' '  Then  I  drove  home." 

"What  sort  of  a  lookin'  fellow  was  he?"  asked  someone. 
"Same  one  as  last  year?" 

"I  never  seen  him/'  said  the  driver.  "He  hung  behind 
his  rock.  He  was  organized  for  shoot,  and  if  the  messengers 
hadn't  happened  to'  a'  been  out  of  it,  I  believe  he  could 
have  killed  us  all." 

"What  did  his  hoss  look  like?"  inquired  California  John. 

"He  didn't  have  no  horse,"  stated  the  driver.  "Least- 
ways, not  near  him.  There  was  no  cover.  He  might  have 
been  around  a  p'int.  And  I  can  sw'ar  to  this :  there  weren't 
no  tracks  of  no  kind  from  there  to  camp." 

They  caught  up  horses  and  started  out.  When  they  came 
to  the  Lost  Dog,  they  stopped  and  looked  at  each  other. 

"Poor  old  Babes,"  said  Simmins.  "Biggest  clean-up 
yet;  and  first  time  one  of  'em  didn't  go  'long." 

"I'm  glad  they  didn't,"  said  Tibbetts.  "That  agent 
would  have  killed  'em  shore!" 

They  called  out  the  Gaynes  brothers  and  broke  the  news. 
For  once  the  jovial  youngsters  had  no  joke  to  make. 

"This  is  getting  serious,"  said  Jimmy,  seriously.  "We 
can't  afford  to  lose  that  much." 


THE    KILLER 

George  whistled  dolefully,  and  went  into  the  corral  for 
the  mules. 

The  party  toiled  up  the  mountain.  Plainly  in  the  dust 
could  be  made  out  the  trail  of  the  express  ascending  and 
descending.  Plain  also  were  the  signs  where  the  driver 
had  dumped  out  the  gold  bags  and  turned  around.  From 
that  point  the  tracks  of  a  man  and  a  horse  led  to  the  sheet 
of  rock.  Beyond  that,  nothing. 

The  men  stared  at  each  other  a  little  frightened.  Some- 
body swore  softly. 

"Boys,"  said  Bright  in  a  strained  voice,  "do  you  know 
how  much  was  in  that  express?  A  half  million!  There's 
nary  earthly  hoss  can  carry  over  half  a  ton !  And  this  one 
treads  as  light  as  a  saddler." 

They  looked  at  each  other  blankly.  Several  even  glanced 
in  apprehension  at  the  sky. 

In  a  perfunctory  manner,  for  the  sake  of  doing  something, 
those  skilled  in  trail-reading  went  back  over  the  ground. 
Nothing  was  added  to  the  first  experience.  At  the  point 
of  robbery  magically  had  appeared  a  man  and — if  the  stage 
driver's  solemn  assertion  that  at  the  time  of  the  hold-up 
no  animal  was  in  sight  could  be  believed — subsequently, 
when  needed,  a  large  horse.  Whence  had  they  come? 
Not  along  the  road  in  either  direction:  the  unbroken,  deep 
dust  assured  that.  Not  down  the  mountain  from  above, 
for  the  cliff  rose  sheer  for  at  least  three  hundred  feet. 
Jimmy  Gaynes,  following  unconsciously  the  general  train 
of  conjecture,  craned  his  neck  over  the  edge  of  the  road. 
The  broken  jagged  rock  and  shale  dropped  off  an  hundred 
feet  to  a  tangle  of  manzanita  and  snowbrush. 

148 


THE    ROAD    AGENT 

California  John  looked  over,  too. 

"Couldn't  even  get  sheep  up  that,"  said  he,  "let  alone  a 
sixteen-hand  horse." 

Old  Man  Bright  was  sunk  in  a  superstitious  torpor.  He 
had  lost  hundreds  of  thousands  where  he  would  have  hated 
to  spend  pennies;  yet  the  financial  part  of  the  loss  hardly 
touched  him.  He  mumbled  fearfully  to  himself,  and  took 
not  the  slightest  interest  in  the  half-hearted  attempts  to 
read  the  mystery.  When  the  others  moved,  he  moved  with 
them,  because  he  was  afraid  to  be  left  alone. 

After  the  men  had  assured  themselves  again  and  again 
that  the  horse  and  the  man  had  apparently  materialized 
from  thin  air  exactly  at  the  point  of  robbery,  they  again 
followed  the  tracks  to  the  broad  sheet  of  rock.  Whither 
had  the  robber  gone?  Back  into  the  thin  air  whence  he 
had  come.  There  was  no  other  solution.  No  tracks  ahead ; 
an  absolute  and  physical  impossibility  of  anything  without 
wings  getting  up  or  down  the  flanking  precipices — these 
were  the  incontestable  facts. 

After  this  second  robbery  a  gloom  descended  on  Bright's 
Cove  which  lasted  through  many  months.  Old  Man 
Bright  hunted  out  the  squaw  with  whom  he  had  first  dis- 
covered the  diggings,  and  set  her  up  in  an  establishment 
with  gay  curtains,  glass  danglers  and  red  doileys.  Each 
month  he  paid  for  her  provisions  and  sent  to  her  a  sum  of 
money.  In  this  manner,  at  least,  the  phantom  road  agent 
had  furthered  the  ends  of  justice.  The  sop  to  the  powers 
of  darkness  appeared  to  be  effective  in  this  respect:  no  more 
hold-ups  occurred;  no  more  mysterious  tracks  appeared 
in  the  dust;  gradually  men's  minds  swung  back  to  the  bal- 

149 


THE    KILLER 

anced  and  normal,  and  the  life  of  the  camp  went  forward  on 
its  appointed  way. 

Nevertheless,  certain  effects  remained.  Each  express 
went  out  heavily  guarded,  and  preceded  and  followed  by 
men  on  horseback.  Strangely  enough  the  gamblers  left  camp. 
In  a  little  more  than  a  year  Old  Man  Bright  fell  into  a  settled 
melancholia  from  which  his  millions  never  helped  him  to  the 
very  day  of  his  death  a  little  more  than  a  year  later. 

In  the  meantime,  however  varied  the  fortunes  of  the  other 
mines  and  prospects,  the  Lost  Dog  continued  to  work 
toward  a  steadily  increasing  paying  basis.  It  never  reached 
the  proportions  of  the  Clarice,  but  turned  out  an  increasing 
value  of  dust  at  each  clean-up.  The  Gaynes  boys  two  years 
before  had  been  in  debt  for  their  groceries.  Now  they  were 
said  to  have  shipped  out  something  like  three  or  four  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars'  worth  of  gold.  Their  friends  used 
to  wander  down  for  the  regular  clean-up,  just  to  rejoice  over 
the  youngsters7  deserved  good  luck.  The  little  five  stamp- 
mill  crunched  away  steadily;  the  water  flowed;  and  in  the 
riffles  the  heavy  gold  dust  accumulated. 

"Why  don't  you-all  put  up  a  big  mill,  throw  in  a  crew  of 
men,  and  get  busy?"  they  were  asked. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  replied  George,  "it's  because  we  know  a 
heap  sight  more  about  mining  than  we  did  when  we  came 
here.  We  have  just  one  claim,  and  from  all  indications 
it's  only  a  pocket.  The  Clarice  is  on  a  genuine  lode;  but 
we're  likely  to  run  into  a  'horse'  or  pinch  out  most  any  min- 
ute. When  we  do,  it's  all  over  but  a  few  faint  cries  of  fraud. 
And  we  can  empty  that  pocket  just  as  well  with  a  little 
jerkwater  outfit  like  this  as  we  could  with  a  big  crew  and 

150 


THE    ROAD    AGENT 

a  real  mill.  It'll  take  a  little  longer;  but  we're  pulling  it 
and  quick  enough." 

"Those  Babes  have  more  sense  than  we  gave  'em  credit 
for,"  commented  California  John.  "Their  heads  are  level. 
They're  dead  right  about  it's  bein'  a  pocket.  The  stuff 
they  run  through  there  is  the  darndest  mixture  7  ever  see 
gold  in." 

Two  months  after  this  conversation  the  Babes  drifted 
into  camp  to  announce  that  the  expected  pinch  had 
come. 

"We're  going,"  said  Jimmy.  "We  have  a  heap  plenty 
dust  salted  away;  and  there's  not  a  colour  left  in  the  Lost 
Dog.  The  mill  machinery  is  for  sale  cheap.  Any  one  can 
have  the  Lost  Dog  who  wants  it.  We're  going  out  to  see 
what  makes  the  wheels  go  'round.  You  boys  have  a  first 
claim  on  us  wherever  you  find  us.  You've  sure  been  good 
to  us.  If  you  catch  that  spook,  send  us  one  of  his  tail 
feathers.  It  would  be  worth  just  twelve  thousand  five 
hundred  to  us." 

They  sold  the  stamp-mill  for  almost  nothing;  packed  eight 
animals  with  heavy  things  they  had  accumulated;  and  de- 
parted up  the  steep  white  road,  over  the  rim  to  the  outer 
world  whence  came  no  word  of  them  more.  The  camp 
went  on  prospering.  Old  Man  Bright  died.  The  heavily 
guarded  express  continued  to  drag  out  yellow  gold  by  the 
hundredweight. 

About  six  weeks  after  the  departure  of  the  Babes,  Califor- 
nia John  saddled  up  his  best  horse,  put  on  his  best  overalls, 
strapped  about  him  his  shiny  worn  Colt's  .45  and  departed 
for  his  semi-annual  visit  to  the  valleys  and  the  towns. 


THE    KILLER 

A  week  later  he  returned.  It  was  about  dusk.  At  the 
water  trough  he  dismounted. 

"Boys,"  said  he,  quietly,  "I've  been  held  up."  He  eyed 
them  quizzically.  "Up  by  the  slide  rock,"  he  continued, 
"and  by  the  spook." 

"Who  was  he?"  "What  was  it?"  they  cried,  starting 
to  their  feet. 

"It  was  Jimmy  Gaynes,"  replied  California  John. 

"The  Babe?"  someone  broke  the  stunned  silence  at  last. 

"Precisely." 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  cried  Tibbetts. 

"Did  he  get  much  off  you?"  asked  a  miner  after  another 
pause. 

"He  never  took  a  thing." 

And  on  that,  being  much  besieged,  California  John  sat 
him  down  and  told  of  his  experience. 


152 


CHAPTER  III 

California  John  was  discursive  and  interested  and  dis- 
inclined to  be  hurried.  He  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other 
and  lit  his  pipe. 

"I  was  driftin'  down  the  road  busy  with  my  own  idees — 
which  ain't  many,"  he  began,  "when  I  was  woke  up  all  to 
once  by  someone  givin'  me  advice.  I  took  the  advice. 
Wasn't  nothin'  else  to  do.  All  I  could  see  was  a  rock  and 
a  gun  barrel.  That  was  enough.  So  I  histed  my  hands  as 
per  commands  and  waited  for  the  next  move."  He  chuck- 
led. "I  wasn't  worryin'.  Had  to  squeeze  my  dust  bag  to 
pay  my  hotel  bill  when  I  left  the  city." 

"'  Drop  yore  gun  in  the  road/  says  the  agent. 

"I  done  so. 

"'Now  dismount.' 

"I  climbed  down.  And  then  Jimmy  Gaynes  rose  up 
rom  behind  that  rock  and  laughed  at  me. 

"'The  joke's  on  me!'  said  I,  and  reached  down  for  my 
gun. 

"'Better  leave  that!'  said  Jimmy  pretty  sharp.  I  know 
that  tone  of  voice,  so  I  straightened  up  again. 

"'Well,  Jimmy,'  said  I,  'she  lays  if  you  say  so.  But 
where'd  you  come  from:  and  what  for  do  you  turn  road 
agent  and  hold  up  your  old  friends? ' 

"  'I'm  holdin'  you  up, '  Jimmy  answered,  'because  I  want 


THE    KILLER 

to  talk  to  you  for  ten  minutes.  As  for  where  I  come  from, 
that's  neither  here  nor  there. ' 

"  'Of  course/  said  I,  'I'm  one  of  these  exclusive  guys  that 
needs  a  gun  throwed  on  him  before  he'll  talk  with  the  plain 
people  like  you/ 

"  'Now  don't  get  mad/  says  Jimmy.  'But  light  yore  pipe, 
and  set  down  on  that  rock,  and  you'll  see  in  a  minute  why 
I  preferred  to  corner  the  gatling  market/ 

"Well,  I  set  down  and  lit  up,  and  Jimmy  done  likewise, 
about  ten  feet  away. 

"Tve  come  back  a  long  ways  to  talk  to  one  of  you  boys, 
and  I've  shore  hung  around  this  road  some  few  hours  waitin' 
for  some  of  you  terrapins  to  come  along.  Ever  found  out 
who  done  those  two  hold-ups? ' 

"'Nope,'  said  I,  'and  don't  expect  to.' 

"'Well,  I  done  it/  says  he. 

"I  looked  him  in  the  eye  mighty  severe. 

'"You're  one  of  the  funniest  little  jokers  ever  hit  this 
trail,'  I  told  him.  'If  that's  your  general  line  of  talkee-talkee 
I  don't  wonder  you  don't  want  me  to  have  no  gun.' 

"'Never/Mess/  he  insists,  'I  done  it.  And  I'll  tell  you 
just  how  it  was  done.  Here's  yore  old  express  crawlin'  up 
the  road.  Here  I  am  behind  this  little  old  rock.  You  know 
what  happened  next  I  reckon — from  experience.' 

"'I  reckon  I  know  that/  says  I,  'but  how  did  you  get  be- 
hind that  rock  without  leavin'  no  tracks?' 

"  'I  climbed  up  the  cliff  out  of  the  canon,  and  I  just  walked 
up  the  canon  from  the  Lost  Dog  through  the  brush.' 

"'Yes/  says  I,  'that  might  be:  a  man  could  make  out  to 
shinny  up.  But  how ' 

154 


THE    ROAD    AGENT 

"'One  thing  to  a  time.  Then  I  ordered  them  dust  sacks 
throwed  out,  and  the  driver  to  'bout-face  and  retreat/ 

"  'Sure,'  says  I,  'simple  as  a  wart  on  a  kid's  nose.  There 
was  you  with  a  half  ton  of  gold  to  fly  off  with !  Come  again. ' 

"  'I  then  dropped  them  sacks  off  the  edge  of  the  cliff  where 
they  rolled  into  the  brush.  After  a  while  I  climbed  down 
after  them,  and  was  on  hand  when  your  posse  started  out. 
Then  I  carried  them  home  at  leisure.' 

"'What  did  you  do  with  your  hoss?'  I  asked  him,  mighty 
sarcastic.  'Seems  to  me  you  overlook  a  few  bets.' 

"T  didn't  have  no  hoss,'  says  he. 

"'But  the  real  hold-up— 

"  'You  mean  them  tracks.  Well,  just  to  amuse  you  fellows, 
I  walked  in  the  dust  up  to  that  flat  rock.  Then  I  clamped 
a  big  pair  of  horseshoes  on  hind-side  before  and  walked 
back  again."3 

California  John's  audience  had  been  listening  intently. 
Now  it  could  no  longer  contain  itself,  but  broke  forth  into 
exclamations  indicative  of  various  emotions. 

"That's  why  them  front  and  back  tracks  was  the  same 
size! "  someone  cried. 

"Gee,  you're  bright!"  said  California  John.  "That's 
what  I  told  him.  I  also  told  him  he  was  a  wonder,  but  how 
did  he  manage  to  slip  out  near  a  ton  of  dust  up  that  road 
without  our  knowing  it? 

"'You  did  know  it,'  says  he.  'Did  you  fellows  really 
think  there  was  any  gold-bearing  ore  in  the  Lost  Dog?  We 
just  run  that  dust  through  the  mill  along  with  a  lot  of  worth- 
less rock,  and  shipped  it  out  open  and  above  board  as  our 
own  mill  run.  There  never  was  an  ounce  of  dust  come  out 


THE    KILLER 

of  the  Lost  Dog,  and  there  never  will.'  Then  he  give  me 
back  my  gun — emptied — we  shook  hands,  and  here  I  be." 

After  the  next  burst  of  astonishment  had  ebbed,  and  had 
been  succeeded  by  a  rather  general  feeling  of  admiration, 
somebody  asked  California  John  if  Jimmy  had  come  back 
solely  for  the  purpose  of  clearing  up  the  mystery.  Califor- 
nia John  had  evidently  been  waiting  for  this  question.  He 
arose  and  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"Bring  a  candle,"  he  requested  the  storekeeper,  and  led 
the  way  to  the  abandoned  Lost  Dog.  Into  the  tunnel  he 
led  them,  to  the  very  end.  There  he  paused,  holding  aloft 
his  light.  At  his  feet  was  a  canvas  which,  being  removed, 
was  found  to  cover  neatly  a  number  of  heavy  sacks. 

"Here's  our  dust,"  said  California  John,  "every  ounce  of 
it,  he  said.  He  kept  about  six  hundred  thousand  or  so  that 
belonged  to  Bright:  but  he  didn't  take  none  of  ours.  He 
come  back  to  tell  me  so." 

The  men  crowded  around  for  closer  inspection. 

"I  wonder  why  he  done  that?"  Tibbetts  marvelled. 

"I  asked  him  that,"  replied  California  John,  grimly. 
"He  said  his  conscience  never  would  rest  easy  if  he  robbed 
us  babes." 

Tibbetts  broke  the  ensuing  silence. 

"Was  'babes'  the  word  he  used?"  he  asked,  softly. 

"'Babes'  was  the  word,"  said  California  John. 


156 


THE    TIDE 

A  short  story,  say  the  writers  of  text  books  and  the  teach- 
ers of  sophomores,  should  deal  with  but  a  single  episode. 
That  dictum  is  probably  true;  but  it  admits  of  wider  inter- 
pretation than  is  generally  given  it.  The  teller  of  tales> 
anxious  to  escape  from  restriction  but  not  avid  of  being  cast 
into  the  outer  darkness  of  the  taboo,  can  in  self-justification 
become  as  technical  as  any  lawyer.  The  phrase  "a  single 
episode"  is  loosely  worded.  The  rule  does  not  specify 
an  episode  in  one  man's  life;  it  might  be  in  the  life  of  a 
family,  or  a  state,  or  even  of  a  whole  people.  In  that  case 
the  action  might  cover  many  lives.  It  is  a  way  out  for  those 
who  have  a  story  to  tell,  a  limit  to  tell  it  within,  but  who 
do  not  wish  to  embroil  themselves  too  seriously  with  the 
august  Makers  of  the  Rules. 

CHAPTER  I 

The  time  was  1850,  the  place  that  long,  soft,  hot  dry  stretch 
of  blasted  desolation  known  as  the  Humboldt  Sink.  The 
sun  stared,  the  heat  rose  in  waves,  the  mirage  shimmered, 
the  dust  devils  of  choking  alkali  whirled  aloft  or  sank  in 
suffocation  on  the  hot  earth.  Thus  it  had  been  since  in 
remote  ages  the  last  drop  of  the  inland  sea  had  risen  into  a 
brazen  sky.  But  this  year  had  brought  something  new. 


THE    KILLER 

A  track  now  led  across  the  desert.  It  had  sunk  deep  into 
the  alkali,  and  the  soft  edges  had  closed  over  it  like  snow, 
so  that  the  wheel  marks  and  the  hoof  marks  and  the  prints 
of  men's  feet  looked  old.  Almost  in  a  straight  line  it  led 
to  the  west.  Its  perspective,  dwindling  to  nothingness, 
corrected  the  deceit  of  the  clear  air.  Without  it  the  cool, 
tall  mountains  looked  very  near.  But  when  the  eye  fol- 
lowed the  trail  to  its  vanishing,  then,  as  though  by  magic, 
the  Ranges  drew  back,  and  before  them  defiled  dreadful 
forces  of  toil,  thirst,  exhaustion,  and  despair.  For  the  trail 
was  marked.  If  the  wheel  ruts  had  been  obliterated,  it 
could  still  have  been  easily  followed.  Abandoned  goods, 
furniture,  stores,  broken-down  wagons,  bloated  carcasses 
of  oxen  or  horses,  bones  bleached  white,  rattling  mummies 
of  dried  skin,  and  an  almost  unbroken  line  of  marked  and 
unmarked  graves — like  the  rout  of  an  army,  like  the  spent 
wash  of  a  wave  that  had  rolled  westward — these  in  double 
rank  defined  the  road. 

The  buzzards  sailing  aloft  looked  down  on  the  Humboldt 
Sink  as  we  would  look  upon  a  relief  map.  Near  the  centre 
of  the  map  a  tiny  cloud  of  white  dust  crawled  slowly  for- 
ward. The  buzzards  stooped  to  poise  above  it. 

Two  ox  wagons  plodded  along.  A  squirrel — were  such 
a  creature  possible — would  have  stirred  disproportionately 
the  light  alkali  dust;  the  two  heavy  wagons  and  the  shuffling 
feet  of  the  beasts  raised  a  cloud.  The  fitful  furnace  draught 
carried  this  along  at  the  slow  pace  of  the  caravan,  which 
could  be  seen  only  dimly,  as  through  a  dense  fog. 

The  oxen  were  in  distress.  Evidently  weakened  by 
starvation,  they  were  proceeding  only  with  the  greatest 

158 


THE    TIDE 

difficulty.  Their  tongues  were  out,  their  legs  spread, 
spasmodically  their  eyes  rolled  back  to  show  the  whites, 
from  time  to  time  one  or  another  of  them  uttered  a 
strangled,  moaning  bellow.  They  were  white  with  the 
powdery  dust,  as  were  their  yokes,  the  wagons,  and  the 
men  who  plodded  doggedly  alongside.  Finally,  they 
stopped.  The  dust  eddied  by;  and  the  blasting  sun  fell 
upon  them. 

The  driver  of  the  leading  team  motioned  to  the  other. 
They  huddled  in  the  scanty  shade  alongside  the  first  wagon. 
Both  men  were  so  powdered  and  caked  with  alkali  that  their 
features  were  indistinguishable.  Their  red-rimmed,  inflamed 
eyes  looked  out  as  though  from  masks. 

The  one  who  had  been  bringing  up  the  rear  looked  de- 
spairingly toward  the  mountains. 

"We'll  never  get  there!"  he  cried. 

"Not  the  way  we  are  now,"  replied  the  other.  "But 
I  intend  to  get  there." 

"How?" 

"Leave  your  wagon,  Jim;  it's  the  heaviest.  Put  your 
team  on  here." 

"But  my  wagon  is  all  I've  got  in  the  world!"  cried  the 
other,  "and  we've  got  near  a  keg  of  water  yet!  We  can 
make  it!  The  oxen  are  pulling  all  right!" 

His  companion  turned  away  with  a  shrug,  then  thought 
better  of  it  and  turned  back. 

"We've  thrown  out  all  we  owned  except  bare  necessities/' 
he  explained,  patiently.  "Your  wagon  is  too  heavy.  The 
time  to  change  is  while  the  beasts  can  still  pull." 

"But  I  refuse!"  cried  the  other.    "I  won't  do  it.    Go 


THE    KILLER 

ahead  with  your  wagon.  I'll  get  mine  in.  John  Gates, 
you  can't  bulldoze  me." 

Gates  stared  him  in  the  eye. 

"Get  the  pail,"  he  requested,  mildly. 

He  drew  water  from  one  of  the  kegs  slung  underneath 
the  wagon's  body.  The  oxen,  smelling  it,  strained  weakly, 
bellowing.  Gates  slowly  and  carefully  swabbed  out  their 
mouths,  permitted  them  each  a  few  swallows,  rubbed  them 
pityingly  between  the  horns.  Then  he  proceeded  to  unyoke 
the  four  beasts  from  the  other  man's  wagon  and  yoked 
them  to  his  own.  Jim  started  to  say  something.  Gates 
faced  him.  Nothing  was  said. 

"Get  your  kit,"  Gates  commanded,  briefly,  after  a  few 
moments.  He  parted  the  hanging  canvas  and  looked  into 
the  wagon.  Built  to  transport  much  freight  it  was  nearly 
empty.  A  young  woman  lay  on  a  bed  spread  along  the 
wagon  bottom.  She  seemed  very  weak. 

"All  right,  honey?"  asked  Gates,  gently. 

She  stirred,  and  achieved  a  faint  smile. 

"It's  terribly  hot.  The  sun  strikes  through,"  she  replied. 
"Can't  we  let  some  air  in?" 

"The  dust  would  smother  you." 

"Are  we  nearly  there?" 

"  Getting  on  farther  every  minute,"  he  replied,  cheerfully. 

Again  the  smothering  alkali  rose  and  the  dust  cloud 
crawled. 

Four  hours  later  the  traveller  called  Jim  collapsed  face 
downward.  The  oxen  stopped.  Gates  lifted  the  man  by 
the  shoulders.  So  exhausted  was  he  that  he  had  not  the 
strength  nor  energy  to  spit  forth  the  alkali  with  which  his 

160 


THE    TIDE 

fall  had  caked  his  open  mouth.  Gates  had  recourse  to 
the  water  keg.  After  a  little  he  hoisted  his  companion  to 
the  front  seat. 

At  intervals  thereafter  the  lone  human  figure  spoke  the 
single  word  that  brought  his  team  to  an  instantaneous  dead 
stop.  His  first  care  was  then  the  woman,  next  the  man 
clinging  to  the  front  seat,  then  the  oxen.  Before  starting 
he  clambered  to  the  top  of  the  wagon  and  cast  a  long,  cal- 
culating look  across  the  desolation  ahead.  Twice  he  even 
further  reduced  the  meagre  contents  of  the  wagon,  apprais- 
ing each  article  long  and  doubtfully  before  discarding  it. 
About  mid-afternoon  he  said  abruptly: 

"Jim,  you've  got  to  walk." 

The  man  demurred  weakly,  with  a  touch  of  panic. 

"Every  ounce  counts.  It's  going  to  be  a  close  shave. 
You  can  hang  on  to  the  tail  of  the  wagon." 

Yet  an  hour  later  Jim,  for  the  fourth  time,  fell  face  down- 
ward, but  now  did  not  rise.  Gates,  going  to  him,  laid  his 
hand  on  his  head,  pushed  back  one  of  his  eyelids,  then  knelt 
for  a  full  half  minute,  staring  straight  ahead.  Once  he 
made  a  tentative  motion  toward  the  nearly  empty  water 
keg,  once  he  started  to  raise  the  man's  shoulders.  The 
movements  were  inhibited.  A  brief  agony  cracked  the 
mask  of  alkali  on  his  countenance.  Then  stolidly,  wearily, 
he  arose.  The  wagon  lurched  fo  ward.  After  it  had  gone 
a  hundred  yards  and  was  well  under  way  in  its  painful  for- 
ward crawl,  Gates,  his  red-rimmed,  bloodshot  eyes  fixed 
and  glazed,  drew  the  revolver  from  its  holster  and  went 
back. 

At  sundown  he  began  to  use  the  gad.  The  oxen  were 

161 


THE    KILLER 

trying  to  lie  down.  If  one  of  them  succeeded,  it  would 
never  again  arise.  Gates  knew  this.  He  plied  the  long, 
heavy  whip  in  both  hands.  Where  the  lash  fell  it  bit  out 
strips  of  hide.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  though 
heretofore  he  had  not  in  all  this  day  inflicted  a  single  blow 
on  the  suffering  animals,  though  his  nostrils  widened  and 
his  terrible  red  eyes  looked  for  pity  toward  the  skies,  yet 
now  he  swung  mercilessly  with  all  his  strength. 

Dusk  fell,  but  the  hot  earth  still  radiated,  the  powder 
dust  rose  and  choked.  The  desert  dragged  at  their  feet; 
and  in  the  twilight  John  Gates  thought  to  hear  mutterings 
and  the  soft  sound  of  wings  overhead  as  the  dread  spirits 
of  the  wastes  stooped  low.  He  had  not  stopped  for  nearly 
two  hours.  This  was  the  last  push;  he  must  go  straight 
through  or  fail. 

And  when  the  gleam  of  the  river  answered  the  gleam  of 
the  starlight  he  had  again  to  rouse  his  drained  energies.  By 
the  brake,  by  directing  the  wagon  into  an  obstruction,  by 
voice  and  whip  he  fought  the  frantic  beasts  back  to  a  moaning 
standstill.  Then  pail  by  pail  he  fed  them  the  water  until 
the  danger  of  overdrinking  was  past.  He  parted  the  cur- 
tains. In  spite  of  the  noise  outside  the  woman,  soothed 
by  the  breath  of  cooler  air,  had  fallen  asleep. 

Some  time  later  he  again  parted  the  curtains. 

"We're  here,  honey,"  he  said,  "good  water,  good  grass, 
shade.  The  desert  is  past.  Wake  up  and  take  a  little 
coffee." 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"I'm  so  tired." 

"We're  going  to  rest  here  a  spell." 

162 


THE    TIDE 

She  drank  the  coffee,  ate  some  of  the  food  he  brought  her, 
thrust  back  her  hair,  breathed  deep  of  the  cooling  night. 
"Where's  Jim?"  she  asked  at  last. 
" Jim  got  very  tired/'  he  said,  "Jim's  asleep." 

Three  months  later.  The  western  slant  of  the  Sierras 
just  where  the  canon  clefts  begin  to  spread  into  foothills. 
On  a  flat  near — too  near — the  stream-bed  was  a  typical 
placer-mining  camp  of  the  day.  That  is,  three  or  four  large, 
rough  buildings  in  a  row,  twenty  or  thirty  log  cabins  scat- 
tered without  order,  and  as  many  tents. 

The  whole  population  was  gathered  interestedly  in  the 
largest  structure,  which  was  primarily  a  dance  hall.  Ninety- 
five  per  cent,  were  men,  of  whom  the  majority  were  young 
men.  A  year  ago  the  percentage  would  have  been  nearer 
one  hundred,  but  now  a  certain  small  coterie  of  women 
had  drifted  in,  most  of  them  with  a  keen  eye  for  prosperity. 
The  red  or  blue  shirt,  the  nondescript  hat,  and  the  high,  mud- 
caked  boots  of  the  miner  preponderated.  Here  and  there 
in  the  crowd,  however,  stood  a  man  dressed  in  the  height 
of  fashion.  There  seemed  no  middle  ground.  These  latter 
were  either  the  professional  gamblers,  the  lawyers,  or  the 
promoters. 

A  trial  was  in  progress,  to  which  all  paid  deep  attention. 
Two  men  disputed  the  ownership  of  a  certain  claim.  Their 
causes  were  represented  by  ornate  individuals  whose  evident 
zest  in  the  legal  battle  was  not  measured  by  prospective  fees. 
Nowhere  in  the  domain  and  at  no  time  in  the  history  of  the 
law  has  technicality  been  so  valued,  has  the  game  of  the 
courts  possessed  such  intellectual  interest,  has  substantial 

163 


THE    KILLER 

justice  been  so  uncertain  as  in  the  California  of  the  early 
'fifties.  The  lawyer  could  spread  himself  unhampered; 
and  these  were  so  doing. 

In  the  height  of  the  proceedings  a  man  entered  from 
outside  and  took  his  position  leaning  against  the  rail  of 
the  jury  box.  That  he  was  a  stranger  was  evident  from 
the  glances  of  curiosity  cast  in  his  direction.  He  was 
tall,  strong,  young,  bearded,  with  a  roving,  humorous  bold 
eye. 

The  last  word  was  spoken.  A  rather  bewildered-looking 
jury  filed  out.  Ensued  a  wait.  The  jury  came  back.  It 
could  not  agree;  it  wanted  information.  Both  lawyers 
supplied  it  in  abundance.  The  foreman,  who  happened 
to  be  next  the  rail  against  which  the  newcomer  was  leaning, 
cast  on  him  a  quizzical  eye. 

"Stranger,"  said  he,  "mout  you  be  able  to  make  head  er 
tail  of  all  that  air?" 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  plumb  distracted  to  know  what  to  do;  and  dear 
knows  we  all  want  to  git  shet  of  this  fob.  Thar's  a  badger 
fight » 

"Where  is  this  claim,  anyway?" 

"Right  adown  the  road.  Location  notice  is  on  the  first 
white  oak  you  come  to.  Cain't  miss  her." 

"If  I  were  you,"  said  the  stranger  after  a  pause,  "I'd 
just  declare  the  claim  vacant.  Then  neither  side  would 
win." 

At  this  moment  the  jury  rose  to  retire  again.  The 
stranger  unobtrusively  gained  the  attention  of  the  clerk 
and  from  him  begged  a  sheet  of  paper.  On  this  he  wrote 

164 


THE    TIDE 

rapidly,  then  folded  it,  and  moved  to  the  outer  door, 
against  the  jamb  of  which  he  took  his  position.  After 
another  and  shorter  wait,  the  jury  returned. 

"Have  you  agreed  on  your  verdict,  gentlemen? "  inquired 
the  judge. 

"We  have, "  replied  the  lank  foreman.  "We  award  that 
the  claim  belongs  to  neither  and  be  declared  vacant." 

At  the  words  the  stranger  in  the  doorway  disappeared. 
Two  minutes  later  the  advance  guard  of  the  rush  that  had 
comprehended  the  true  meaning  of  the  verdict  found  the 
white  oak  tree  in  possession  of  a  competent  individual  with 
a  Colt's  revolving  pistol  and  a  humorous  eye. 

"My  location  notice,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  calling  at- 
tention to  a  paper  freshly  attached  by  wooden  pegs. 

"'Honey-bug  claim',"  they  read,  "'John  Gates',"  and 
the  usual  phraseology. 

"But  this  is  a  swindle,  an  outrage!"  cried  one  of  the 
erstwhile  owners. 

"If  so  it  was  perpetrated  by  your  own  courts,"  said 
Gates,  crisply.  "I  am  within  my  rights,  and  I  propose  to 
defend  them." 

Thus  John  Gates  and  his  wife,  now  strong  and  hearty, 
became  members  of  this  community.  His  intention  had  been 
to  proceed  to  Sacramento.  An  incident  stopped  him  here. 

The  Honey-bug  claim  might  or  might  not  be  a  good 
placer  miner-time  would  show — but  it  was  certainly  a 
wonderful  location.  Below  the  sloping  bench  on  which 
it  stood  the  country  fell  away  into  the  brown  heat  haze 
of  the  lowlands,  a  curtain  that  could  lift  before  a  north 
wind  to  reveal  a  landscape  magnificent  as  a  kingdom, 


THE    KILLER 

Spreading  white  oaks  gave  shade,  a  spring  sang  from  the 
side  hill  on  which  grew  lofty  pines,  and  back  to  the  east  rose 
the  dark  or  glittering  Sierras.  The  meadow  at  the  back 
was  gay  with  mariposa  lilies,  melodious  with  bees  and  birds, 
aromatic  with  the  mingled  essences  of  tarweed,  lads-love, 
and  the  pines.  At  this  happy  elevation  the  sun  lay  warm 
and  caressing,  but  the  air  tasted  cool. 

"I  could  love  this/'  said  the  woman. 

"You'll  have  a  chance,"  said  John  Gates,  "for  when 
we've  made  our  pile,  well  always  keep  this  to  come  back  to." 

At  first  they  lived  in  the  wagon,  which  they  drew  up 
under  one  of  the  trees,  while  the  oxen  recuperated  and  grew 
fat  on  the  abundant  grasses.  Then  in  spare  moments 
John  Gates  began  the  construction  of  a  house.  He  was 
a  man  of  tremendous  energy,  but  also  of  many  activities. 
The  days  were  not  long  enough  for  him.  In  him  was  the 
true  ferment  of  constructive  civilization.  Instinctively 
he  reached  out  to  modify  his  surroundings.  A  house, 
then  a  picket  fence,  split  from  the  living  trees;  an  irrigation 
ditch;  a  garden  spot;  fruit  trees;  vines  over  the  porch;  better 
stables;  more  fences;  the  gradual  shaping  from  the  wilder- 
ness of  a  home — these  absorbed  his  surplus.  As  a  matter 
of  business  he  worked  with  pick  and  shovel  until  he  had 
proved  the  Honey-bug  hopeless,  then  he  started  a  store 
on  credit.  Therein  he  sold  everything  from  hats  to  42 
calibre  whiskey.  To  it  he  brought  the  same  overflowing 
play-spirit  that  had  fashioned  his  home. 

"  I'm  making  a  very  good  living,"  he  answered  a  question; 
"that  is,  if  I'm  not  particular  on  how  well  I  live,"  and  he 
laughed  his  huge  laugh. 

166 


THE    TIDE 

He  was  very  popular.  Shortly  they  elected  him  sheriff. 
He  gained  this  high  office  fundamentally,  of  course,  by  reason 
of  his  courage  and  decision  of  character;  but  the  immediate 
and  visible  causes  were  the  Episode  of  the  Frazzled  Mule, 
and  the  Episode  of  the  Frying  Pan.  The  one  inspired  re- 
spect; the  other  amusement. 

The  freight  company  used  many  pack  and  draught  ani- 
mals. One  day  one  of  its  mules  died.  The  mozo  in  charge 
of  the  corrals  dragged  the  carcass  to  the  superintendent's 
office.  That  individual  cursed  twice;  once  at  the  mule 
for  dying,  and  once  at  the  mozo  for  being  a  fool.  At  night- 
fall another  mule  died.  This  time  the  mozoy  mindful  of  his 
berating,  did  not  deliver  the  body,  but  conducted  the  super- 
intendent to  see  the  sad  remains. 

"  Bury  it, "  ordered  the  superintendent,  disgustedly.  Two 
mules  at  $350 — quite  a  loss. 

But  next  morning  another  had  died;  fairly  an  epidemic 
among  mules.  This  carcass  also  was  ordered  buried.  And 
at  noon  a  fourth.  The  superintendent,  on  his  way  to  view 
the  defunct,  ran  across  John  Gates. 

"Look  here,  John,"  queried  he,  "do  you  know  anything 
about  mules?" 

"Considerable,"  admitted  Gates. 

"Well,  come  see  if  you  can  tell  me  what's  killing  ours 
off." 

They  contemplated  the  latest  victim  of  the  epidemic. 

"Seems  to  be  something  that  swells  them  up,"  ventured 
the  superintendent  after  a  while. 

John  Gates  said  nothing  for  some  time.  Then  suddenly 
he  snatched  his  pistol  and  levelled  it  at  the  shrinking  mozo. 


THE    KILLER 

"Produce  those  three  mules!"  he  roared,  "miicho  pronto, 
too!"  To  the  bewildered  superintendent  he  explained. 
"Don't  you  see?  this  is  the  same  old  original  mule.  He 
ain't  never  been  buried  at  all.  They've  been  stealing  your 
animals  pretending  they  died,  and  using  this  one  over  and 
over  as  proof!" 

This  proved  to  be  the  case;  but  John  Gates  was  clever 
enough  never  to  tell  how  he  surmised  the  truth. 

"That  mule  looked  to  me  pretty  frazzled,"  was  all  he 
would  say. 

The  frying-pan  episode  was  the  sequence  of  a  quarrel. 
Gates  was  bringing  home  a  new  frying  pan.  At  the  proper 
point  in  the  discussion  he  used  his  great  strength  to  smash 
the  implement  over  his  opponent's  head  so  vigorously 
that  it  came  down  around  his  neck  like  a  jagged  collar! 
Gates  clung  to  the  handle,  however,  and  by  it  led  his  man 
all  around  camp,  to  the  huge  delight  of  the  populace. 

As  sheriff  he  was  effective,  but  at  times  peculiar  in  his 
administration.  No  man  could  have  been  more  zealous 
in  performing  his  duty;  yet  he  never  would  mix  in  the  affairs 
of  foreigners.  Invariably  in  such  cases  he  made  out  the 
warrants  in  blank,  swore  in  the  complaining  parties  them- 
selves as  deputies,  and  told  them  blandly  to  do  their  own 
arresting!  Nor  at  times  did  he  fail  to  temper  his  duty  with 
a  little  substantial  justice  of  his  own.  Thus  he  was  once 
called  upon  to  execute  a  judgment  for  $30  against  a  poor 
family.  Gates  went  down  to  the  premises,  looked  over  the 
situation,  talked  to  the  man — a  poverty-stricken,  discour- 
aged, ague-shaken  creature — and  marched  back  to  the  offices 
of  the  plaintiffs  in  the  case. 

168 


THE    TIDE 

"Here,"  said  he,  calmly,  laying  a  paper  and  a  small  bag 
of  gold  dust  on  their  table,  "is  $30  and  a  receipt  in  full." 

The  complainant  reached  for  the  sack.  Gates  placed 
his  hand  over  it. 

"Sign  the  receipt,"  he  commanded.  "Now,"  he  went  on 
after  the  ink  had  been  sanded,  "there's  your  $30.  It's 
yours  legally;  and  you  can  take  it  if  you  want  to.  But  I 
want  to  warn  you  that  a  thousand-dollar  licking  goes  with 
it!" 

The  money — from  Gates's  own  pocket — eventually  found 
its  way  to  the  poor  family! 

They  had  three  children,  two  boys  and  a  girl  of  which 
one  boy  died. 

In  five  years  the  placers  began  to  play  out.  One  by 
one  the  more  energetic  of  the  miners  dropped  away.  The 
nature  of  the  community  changed.  Small  hill  ranches  or 
fruit  farms  took  the  place  of  the  mines.  The  camp  became 
a  country  village.  Old  time  excitement  calmed,  the  pace 
of  life  slowed,  the  horizon  narrowed. 

John  Gates,  clear-eyed,  energetic,  keen  brained,  saw 
this  tendency  before  it  became  a  fact. 

"This  camp  is  busted,"  he  told  himself. 

It  was  the  hour  to  fulfill  the  purpose  of  the  long,  terrible 
journey  across  the  plains,  to  carry  out  the  original  intention 
to  descend  from  the  Sierras  to  the  golden  valleys,  to  follow 
the  struggle. 

"Reckon  it's  time  to  be  moving,"  he  told  his  wife. 

But  now  his  own  great  labours  asserted  their  claim.  He 
nad  put  four  years  of  his  life  into  making  this  farm  out  of 
nothing,  four  years  of  incredible  toil,  energy,  and  young 

169 


THE    KILLER 

enthusiasm.  He  had  a  good  dwelling  and  spacious  corrals, 
an  orchard  started,  a  truck  garden,  a  barley  field,  a  pasture, 
cattle,  sheep,  chickens,  his  horses — all  his  creation  from 
nothing.  One  evening  at  sundown  he  found  his  wife  in  the 
garden  weeping  softly. 

"What  is  it,  honey?  "  he  asked. 

"I  was  just  thinking  how  we'd  miss  the  garden,"  she 
replied. 

He  looked  about  at  the  bright,  cheerful  flowers,  the  vine- 
hung  picket  fence,  the  cool  verandah,  the  shady  fig  tree 
already  of  some  size.  Everything  was  neat  and  trim,  just 
as  he  liked  it.  And  the  tinkle  of  pleasant  waters,  the  song 
of  a  meadow  lark,  the  distant  mellow  lowing  of  cows  came 
to  his  ears;  the  smell  of  tarweed  and  of  pines  mingled  in 
his  nostrils. 

"It's  a  good  place  for  children,"  he  said,  vaguely. 

Neither  knew  it,  but  that  little  speech  marked  the  ebb 
of  the  wave  that  had  lifted  him  from  his  eastern  home, 
had  urged  him  across  the  plains,  had  flung  him  in  the  almost 
insolent  triumph  of  his  youth  high  toward  the  sun.  Now 
the  wash  receded. 


170 


CHAPTER  II 

It  was  indeed  a  good  place  for  children.  Charley  and 
Alice  Gates  grew  tall  and  strong,  big  boned,  magnificent, 
typical  California  products.  They  went  to  the  district 
school,  rode  in  the  mountains,  helped  handle  the  wild  cattle. 
At  the  age  of  twelve  Charley  began  to  accompany  the  sum- 
mer incursions  into  the  High  Sierras  in  search  of  feed.  At 
the  age  of  sixteen  he  was  entrusted  with  a  bunch  of  cattle. 
In  these  summers  he  learned  the  wonder  of  the  high,  glitter- 
ing peaks,  the  blueness  of  the  skies  in  high  altitudes,  the 
multitude  of  the  stars,  the  flower-gemmed  secret  meadows, 
the  dark,  murmuring  forests.  He  fished  in  the  streams,  and 
hunted  on  the  ridges.  His  camp  was  pitched  within  a 
corral  of  heavy  logs.  It  was  very  simple.  Utensils  de- 
pending from  trees,  beds  beneath  canvas  tarpaulins  on 
pine  needles,  saddlery,  riatas,  branding  irons  scattered 
about.  No  shelter  but  the  sky.  A  wonderful  roving  life. 

It  developed  taciturnity  and  individualism.  Charley 
Gates  felt  no  necessity  for  expression  as  yet;  and  as  his 
work  required  little  cooperation  from  his  fellow  creatures 
he  acknowledged  as  little  responsibility  toward  them. 
Thus  far  he  was  the  typical  mountaineer. 

But  other  influences  came  to  him;  as,  indeed,  they 
come  to  all.  But  young  Charley  was  more  susceptible  than 
most,  and  this — on  the  impulse  of  the  next  tide  resurgent — 

171 


THE    KILLER 

saved  him  from  his  type.  He  liked  to  read;  he  did  not 
scorn  utterly  and  boisterously  the  unfortunate  young  man 
who  taught  the  school;  and,  better  than  all,  he  possessed 
just  the  questioning  mind  that  refuses  to  accept  on  their 
own  asseveration  only  the  conventions  of  life  or  the  opin- 
ions of  neighbours.  If  he  were  to  drink,  it  would  be  be- 
cause he  wanted  to;  not  because  his  companions  considered 
it  manly.  If  he  were  to  enter  the  sheep  war,  it  would  be 
because  he  really  considered  sheep  harmful  to  the  range;  not 
because  of  the  overwhehning — and  contagious — prejudice. 

In  one  thing  only  did  he  follow  blindly  his  sense  of  loy- 
alty: He  hated  the  Hydraulic  Company. 

Years  after  the  placers  failed  someone  discovered  that 
the  wholesale  use  of  hydraulic  " giants"  produced  gold 
in  paying  quantities.  Huge  streams  of  water  under  high 
pressure  were  directed  against  the  hills,  which  melted  like 
snow  under  the  spring  sun.  The  earth  in  suspension  was 
run  over  artificial  riffles  against  which  the  heavier  gold 
collected.  One  such  stream  could  accomplish  in  a  few  hours 
what  would  have  cost  hand  miners  the  better  part  of  a 
season. 

But  the  debris  must  go  somewhere.  A  rushing  mud  and 
boulder-filled  torrent  tore  down  stream  beds  adapted  to  a 
tenth  of  their  volume.  It  wrecked  much  of  the  country 
below,  ripping  out  the  good  soil,  covering  the  bottomlands 
many  feet  deep  with  coarse  rubble,  clay,  mud,  and  even 
big  rocks  and  boulders.  The  farmers  situated  below  such 
operations  suffered  cruelly.  Even  to  this  day  the  devastat- 
ing results  may  be  seen  above  Colfax  or  Sacramento. 

John  Gates  suffered  with  the  rest.  His  was  not  the 

172 


THE    TIDE 

nature  to  submit  tamely,  nor  to  compromise.  He  had  made 
his  farm  with  his  own  hands,  and  he  did  not  propose  to  see 
it  destroyed.  Much  money  he  expended  through  the  courts; 
indeed  the  profits  of  his  business  were  eaten  by  a  never- 
ending,  inconclusive  suit.  The  Hydraulic  Company,  securely 
entrenched  behind  the  barriers  of  especial  privilege,  could 
laugh  at  his  frontal  attacks.  It  was  useless  to  think  of 
force.  The  feud  degenerated  into  a  bitter  legal  battle 
and  much  petty  guerrilla  warfare  on  both  sides. 

To  this  quarrel  Charley  had  been  bred  up  in  a  consuming 
hate  of  the  Hydraulic  Company,  all  its  works,  officers, 
bosses,  and  employees.  Every  human  being  in  any  way 
connected  with  it  wore  horns,  hoofs,  and  a  tail.  In  com- 
pany with  the  wild  youths  of  the  neighbourhood  he  per- 
petrated many  a  raid  on  the  Company's  property.  Be- 
ginning with  boyish  openings  of  corrals  to  permit  stock 
to  stray,  these  raids  progressed  with  the  years  until  they 
had  nearly  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  armed  deputies  and 
bench  warrants. 

The  next  day  of  significance  to  our  story  was  October 
15,  1872.  On  that  date  fire  started  near  Flour  Gold 
and  swept  upward.  October  is  always  a  bad  time  of  year 
for  fires  in  foothill  California — between  the  rains,  the 
heat  of  the  year,  everything  crisp  and  brown  and  brittle. 
This  threatened  the  whole  valley  and  water  shed.  The 
Gateses  turned  out,  and  all  their  neighbours,  with  hoe,  mat- 
tock, axe,  and  sacking,  trying  to  beat,  cut,  or  scrape  a  "break" 
wide  enough  to  check  the  flames.  It  was  cruel  work. 
The  sun  blazed  overhead  and  the  earth  underfoot.  The  air 
quivered  as  from  a  furnace.  Men  gasped  at  it  with  strain- 

173 


THE    KILLER 

ing  lungs.  The  sweat  pouring  from  their  bodies  combined 
with  the  parching  of  the  superheated  air  induced  a  raging 
thirst.  No  water  was  to  be  had  save  what  was  brought 
to  them.  Young  boys  and  women  rode  along  the  line 
carrying  canteens,  water  bottles,  and  food.  The  fire  fighters 
snatched  hastily  at  these,  for  the  attack  of  the  fire  permitted 
no  respite.  Twice  they  cut  the  wide  swath  across  country; 
but  twice  before  it  was  completed  the  fire  crept  through 
and  roared  into  triumph  behind  them.  The  third  time  the 
line  held,  and  this  was  well  into  the  second  day. 

Charley  Gates  had  fought  doggedly.  He  had  summoned 
the  splendid  resources  of  youth  and  heritage,  and  they  had 
responded.  Next  in  line  to  his  right  had  been  a  stranger. 
This  latter  was  a  slender,  clean-cut  youth,  at  first  glance 
seemingly  of  delicate  physique.  Charley  had  looked  upon 
him  with  the  pitying  contempt  of  strong  youth  for  weak 
youth.  He  considered  that  the  stranger's  hands  were  soft 
and  effeminate,  he  disliked  his  little  trimmed  moustache, 
and  especially  the  cool,  mocking,  appraising  glance  of  his 
eyes.  But  as  the  day,  and  the  night,  and  the  day  following 
wore  away,  Charley  raised  his  opinion.  The  slender  body 
possessed  unexpected  reserve,  the  long,  lean  hands  plied 
the  tools  unweariedly,  the  sensitive  face  had  become 
drawn  and  tired,  but  the  spirit  behind  the  mocking  eyes 
had  not  lost  the  flash  of  its  defiance.  In  the  heat  of  the 
struggle  was  opportunity  for  only  the  briefest  exchanges. 
Once,  when  Charley  despairingly  shook  his  empty  canteen, 
the  stranger  offered  him  a  swallow  from  his  own.  Next 
time  exigency  crowded  them  together,  Charley  croaked: 

"  Reckon  we'll  hold  her." 


THE    TIDE 

Toward  evening  of  the  second  day  the  westerly  breeze 
died,  and  shortly  there  breathed  a  gentle  air  from  the 
mountains.  The  danger  was  past. 

Charley  and  the  stranger  took  long  pulls  from  their 
recently  replenished  canteens.  Then  they  sank  down  where 
they  were,  and  fell  instantly  asleep.  The  projecting  root 
of  a  buckthorn  stuck  squarely  into  Charley's  ribs,  but  he 
did  not  know  it;  a  column  of  marching  ants,  led  by  a  non- 
adaptable  commander,  climbed  up  and  over  the  recumbent 
form  of  the  stranger,  but  he  did  not  care. 

They  came  to  life  in  the  shiver  of  gray  dawn,  wearied, 
stiffened,  their  eyes  swelled,  their  mouths  dry. 

"You're  a  sweet  sight,  stranger,"  observed  Charley. 

"Same  to  you  and  more  of  'em,"  rejoined  the  other. 

Charley  arose  painfully. 

"There's  a  little  water  in  my  canteen  yet,"  he  proffered. 
"What  might  you  call  yourself?  I  don't  seem  to  know 
you  in  these  parts." 

"Thanks,"  replied  the  other.  "My  name's  Cathcart; 
I'm  from  just  above." 

He  drank,  and  lowered  the  canteen  to  look  into  the 
flaming,  bloodshot  eyes  of  his  companion. 

"Are  you  the  low-lived  skunk  that's  running  the  Hydrau- 
lic Company?"  demanded  Charley  Gates. 

The  stranger  laid  down  the  canteen  and  scrambled  pain 
fully  to  his  feet. 

"I  am  employed  by  the  Company,"  he  replied,  curtly, 
"but  please  to  understand  I  don't  permit  you  to  call  me 
ties." 
: Permit!"  sneered  Charley. 

175 


THE    KILLER 

"Permit,"  repeated  Cathcart. 

So,  not  having  had  enough  exercise  in  the  past  two  days, 
these  young  game  cocks  went  at  each  other.  Charley  was 
much  the  stronger  rough-and-tumble  fighter;  but  Cathcart 
possessed  some  boxing  skill.  Result  was  that,  in  their 
weakened  condition,  they  speedily  fought  themselves  to  a 
standstill  without  serious  damage  to  either  side. 

"Now  perhaps  you'll  tell  me  who  the  hell  you  think  you 
are!"  panted  Cathcart,  fiercely. 

At  just  beyond  arm's  length  they  discussed  the  situation, 
at  first  belligerently  with  much  recrimination,  then  more 
calmly,  at  last  with  a  modicum  of  mutual  understanding. 
Neither  seceded  from  his  basic  opinion.  Charley  Gates 
maintained  that  the  Company  had  no  earthly  business 
ruining  his  property,  but  admitted  that  with  all  that  good 
gold  lying  there  it  was  a  pity  not  to  get  it  out.  Cathcart 
stoutly  defended  a  man's  perfect  right  to  do  as  he  pleased 
with  his  own  belongings,  but  conceded  that  something  really 
ought  to  be  done  about  overflow  waters. 

"What  are  you  doing  down  here  fighting  fire,  anyway?" 
demanded  Charley,  suddenly.  "It  couldn't  hurt  your  prop- 
erty. You  could  turn  the  'giants'  on  it,  if  it  ever  came  up 
your  way." 

"I  don't  know.  I  just  thought  I  ought  to  help  out 
a  little,"  said  Cathcart,  simply. 

For  three  years  more  Charley  ran  his  father's  cattle 
in  the  hills.  Then  he  announced  his  intention  of  going 
away.  John  Gates  was  thunderstruck.  By  now  he  was 
stranded  high  and  dry  above  the  tide,  fitting  perfectly 
his  surroundings.  Vaguely  he  had  felt  that  his  son  would 

176 


THE    TIDE 

stay  with  him  always.  But  the  wave  was  again  surging 
upward.  Charley  had  talked  with  Cathcart. 

"This  is  no  country  to  draw  a  salary  in,"  the  latter  had 
told  him,  "nor  to  play  with  fanning  or  cows.  It's  too 
big,  too  new,  there  are  too  many  opportunities.  I'll  resign, 
and  you  leave;  and  we'll  make  our  fortunes." 

"How?"  asked  Charley. 

"Timber,"  said  Cathcart. 

They  conferred  on  this  point.  Cathcart  had  the  expe- 
rience of  business  ways;  Charley  Gates  the  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  the  country;  there  only  needed  a  third  member 
to  furnish  some  money.  Charley  broke  the  news  to  his 
family,  packed  his  few  belongings,  and  the  two  of  them 
went  to  San  Francisco. 

Charley  had  never  seen  a  big  city.  He  was  very  funny 
about  it,  but  not  overwhelmed.  While  willing,  even  avid, 
to  go  the  rounds  and  meet  the  sporting  element,  he  declined 
to  drink.  When  pressed  and  badgered  by  his  new  acquaint- 
ances, he  grinned  amiably. 

"I  never  play  the  other  fellows'  game,"  he  said.  "When 
it  gets  to  be  my  game,  I'll  join  you." 

The  new  partners  had  difficulty  in  getting  even  a 
hearing. 

"It's  a  small  business,"  said  capitalists,  "and  will  be. 
The  demand  for  lumber  here  is  limited,  and  it  is  well  taken 
care  of  by  small  concerns  near  at  hand." 

"The  state  will  grow  and  I  am  counting  on  the  outside 
market,"  argued  Cathcart. 

But  this  was  too  absurd!  The  forests  of  Michigan,  Wis- 
consin, and  Minnesota  were  inexhaustible!  As  for  the 

177 


THE    KILLER 

state  growing  to  that  extent;  of  course  we  all  believe  it, 
but  when  it  comes  to  investing  good  money  in  the  belief 

At  length  they  came  upon  one  of  the  new  millionaires 
created  by  the  bonanzas  of  Virginia  City. 

"I  don't  know  a  damn  thing  about  your  timber,  byes,'* 
said  he,  "but  I  like  your  looks.  I'll  go  in  wid  ye.  Have 
a  seegar;  they  cost  me  a  dollar  apiece." 

The  sum  invested  was  absurdly,  inadequately  small. 

"It'll  have  to  spread  as  thin  as  it  can,"  said  Cathcart. 

They  spent  the  entire  season  camping  in  the  mountains. 
By  the  end  of  the  summer  they  knew  what  they  wanted;  and 
immediately  took  steps  to  acquire  it.  Under  the  homestead 
laws  each  was  entitled  to  but  a  small  tract  of  Government 
land.  However,  they  hired  men  to  exercise  their  privileges 
in  this  respect,  to  take  up  each  his  allotted  portion,  and 
then  to  convey  his  rights  to  Cathcart  and  Gates.  It  was 
slow  business,  for  the  show  of  compliance  with  Government 
regulations  had  to  be  made.  But  in  this  manner  the  sum 
of  money  at  their  disposal  was  indeed  spread  out  very  thin. 

For  many  years  the  small,  nibbling  lumbering  operations 
their  limited  capital  permitted  supplied  only  a  little  more 
than  a  bare  living  and  the  taxes.  But  every  available 
cent  went  back  into  the  business.  It  grew.  Band  saws 
replaced  the  old  circulars;  the  new  mills  delivered  their 
product  into  flumes  that  carried  it  forty  miles  to  the  railroad. 
The  construction  of  this  flume  was  a  tremendous  under- 
taking, but  by  now  the  firm  could  borrow  on  its  timber. 
To  get  the  water  necessary  to  keep  the  flume  in  operation 
the  partners — again  by  means  of  "dummies" — filed  on  the 
water  rights  of  certain  streams.  To  take  up  the  water 

178 


THE    TIDE 

directly  was  without  the  law;  but  a  show  of  mineral  stain 
was  held  to  justify  a  " mineral  claim,"  so  patents  were 
obtained  under  that  ruling.  Then  Charley  had  a  bright 
idea. 

"Look  here,  Cliff,"  he  said  to  Cathcart.  "I  know  some- 
thing about  farming;  I  was  brought  up  on  a  farm.  This 
country  will  grow  anything  anywhere  if  it  has  water. 
That  lower  country  they  call  a  desert,  but  that's  only  be- 
cause it  hasn't  any  rainfall.  We're  going  to  have  a  lot 
of  water  at  the  end  of  that  flume— 

They  bought  the  desert  land  at  fifty  cents  an  acre;  scraped 
ditches  and  checks;  planted  a  model  orchard,  and  went  into 
the  real  estate  business.  In  time  a  community  grew  up. 
When  hydro-electric  power  came  into  its  own  Cathcart  & 
Gates  from  their  various  water  rights  furnished  light  for 
themselves,  and  gradually  for  the  towns  and  villages  round- 
about. Thus  their  affairs  spread  and  became  complicated. 
Before  they  knew  it  they  were  wealthy,  very  wealthy. 
Their  wives — for  in  due  course  each  had  his  romance — 
began  to  talk  of  San  Francisco. 

All  this  had  not  come  about  easily.  At  first  they  had 
to  fight  tooth  and  nail.  The  conditions  of  the  times  were 
crude,  the  code  merciless.  As  soon  as  the  firm  showed 
its  head  above  the  financial  horizon,  it  was  swooped  upon. 
Business  was  predatory.  They  had  to  fight  for  what  they 
got;  had  to  fight  harder  to  hold  it.  Cathcart  was  involved 
continually  in  a  maze  of  intricate  banking  transactions; 
Gates  resisted  aggression  within  and  without,  often  with 
his  own  two  fists.  They  learned  to  trust  no  man,  but  they 
learned  also  to  hate  no  man.  It  was  all  part  of  the  game. 

179 


THE    KILLER 

More  sensitive  temperaments  would  have  failed;  these 
succeeded.  Cathcart  became  shrewd,  incisive,  direct,  cold, 
a  little  hard;  Charley  Gates  was  burly,  hearty,  a  trifle  bully- 
ing. Both  were  in  all  circumstances  quite  unruffled;  and 
in  some  circumstances  ruthless. 

About  1900  the  entire  holdings  of  the  Company  were 
capitalized,  and  a  stock  company  was  formed.  The  actual 
management  of  the  lumbering,  the  conduct  of  the  farms  and 
ranches,  the  running  of  the  hydro-electric  systems  of  light 
and  transportation,  were  placed  in  the  hands  of  active  young 
men.  Charley  Gates  and  his  partner  exercised  over  these 
activities  only  the  slightest  supervision;  auditing  accounts, 
making  an  occasional  trip  of  inspection.  Affairs  would 
quite  well  have  gone  on  without  them;  though  they  would 
have  disbelieved  and  resented  that  statement. 

The  great  central  offices  in  San  Francisco  were  very 
busy — all  but  the  inner  rooms  where  stood  the  partners' 
desks.  One  day  Cathcart  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  and  slowly 
wheeled  his  chair. 

"Look  here,  Charley,"  he  proposed,  "we've  got  a  big 
surplus.  There's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  make  a  killing 
on  the  side." 

"As  how?"  asked  Gates, 

Cathcart  outlined  his  plan.  It  was  simply  stock  manip- 
ulation on  a  big  scale;  although  the  naked  import  was 
somewhat  obscured  by  the  complications  of  the  scheme. 
After  he  had  finished  Gates  smoked  for  some  time  in  silence. 

"All  right,  Cliff,"  said  he,  "let's  do  it." 

And  so  by  a  sentence,  as  his  father  before  him,  he  marked 
the  farthest  throw  of  the  wave  that  had  borne  him  blindly 

180 


THE    TIDE 

toward  the  shore.  In  the  next  ten  years  Cathcart  and 
Gates  made  forty  million  dollars.  Charley  seemed  to 
himself  to  be  doing  a  tremendous  business,  but  his  real 
work,  his  contribution  to  the  episode  in  the  life  of  the  com- 
monwealth, ceased  there.  Again  the  wave  receded. 


181 


CHAPTER  III 

The  third  generation  of  the  Gates  family  consisted  of 
two  girls  and  a  boy.  They  were  brought  up  as  to  their 
early  childhood  in  what  may  be  called  moderate  circum- 
stances. A  small  home  near  the  little  mill  town,  a  single 
Chinese  servant,  a  setter  dog,  and  plenty  of  horses  formed 
their  entourage.  When  Charles,  Jr.,  was  eleven,  and  his 
sisters  six  and  eight,  however,  the  family  moved  to  a  pre- 
tentious "mansion"  on  Nob  Hill  in  San  Francisco.  The 
environment  of  childhood  became  a  memory:  the  reality 
of  life  was  comprised  in  the  super-luxurious  existence  on 
Nob  Hill. 

It  was  not  a  particularly  wise  existence.  Whims  were 
too  easily  realized,  consequences  too  lightly  avoided,  dis- 
cipline too  capricious.  The  children  were  sent  to  private 
schools  where  they  met  only  their  own  kind;  they  were 
specifically  forbidden  to  mingle  with  the  " hoodlums"  in 
the  next  street;  they  became  accustomed  to  being  sent 
here  and  there  in  carriages  with  two  servants,  or  later, 
in  motor  cars;  they  had  always  spending  money  for  the  ask- 
ing. 

"I  know  what  it  is  like  to  scrimp  and  save,  and  my 
children  are  going  to  be  spared  that!"  was  Mrs.  Gates's 
creed  in  the  matter. 

The  little  girls  were  always  dressed  alike  in  elaborately 

182 


THE    TIDE 

simple  clothes,  with  frilly,  starched  underpinnies,  silk  stock- 
ings, high  boots  buttoned  up  slim  legs;  and  across  their 
shoulders,  from  beneath  wonderful  lingerie  hats,  hung  shin- 
ing curls.  The  latter  were  not  natural,  but  had  each  day 
to  be  elaborately  constructed.  They  made  a  dainty  and 
charming  picture. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  sweet  in  all  your  life!" 
was  the  invariable  feminine  exclamation. 

Clara  and  Ethel-May  always  heard  these  remarks.  They 
conducted  themselves  with  the  poise  and  savoir  faire  of 
grown  women.  Before  they  were  twelve  they  could 
"handle"  servants,  conduct  polite  conversations  in  a  cor- 
rectly artificial  accent,  and  adapt  their  manners  to  another's 
station  in  life. 

Charley  Junior's  development  was  sharply  divided  into 
two  periods,  with  the  second  of  which  alone  we  have  to 
do.  The  first,  briefly,  was  repressive.  He  was  not 
allowed  to  play  with  certain  boys,  he  was  not  permitted 
to  stray  beyond  certain  bounds,  he  was  kept  clean  and 
dressed-up,  he  was  taught  his  manners.  In  short,  Mrs. 
Gates  tried — without  knowing  what  she  was  doing — to 
use  the '  same  formula  on  him  as  she  had  on  Ethel-May 
and  Clara. 

In  the  second  period,  he  was  a  grief  to  his  family.  Roughly 
speaking,  this  period  commenced  about  the  time  he  began 
to  be  known  as  " Chuck"  instead  of  Charley. 

There  was  no  real  harm  in  the  boy.  He  was  high  spirited, 
full  of  life,  strong  as  a  horse,  and  curious.  Possessed  of 
the  patrician  haughty  good  looks  we  breed  so  easily  from 
shirtsleeves,  free  with  his  money,  known  as  the  son  of  his 


THE    KILLER 

powerful  father,  a  good  boxer,  knowing  no  fear,  he  speedily 
became  a  familiar  popular  figure  around  town.  It  delighted 
him  to  play  the  prince,  either  incognito  or  in  person;  to 
"blow  off  the  crowd/'  to  battle  joyously  with  longshoremen; 
to  "rough  house "  the  semi-respectable  restaurants.  The 
Barbary  Coast  knew  him,  Taits,  Zinkands,  the  Poodle 
Dog,  the  Cliff  House,  Franks,  and  many  other  resorts  not 
to  be  spoken  of  so  openly.  He  even  got  into  the  police 
courts  once  or  twice;  and  nonchalantly  paid  a  fine,  with  a 
joke  at  the  judge  and  a  tip  to  the  policeman  who  had  ar- 
rested him.  There  was  too  much  drinking,  too  much 
gambling,  too  loose  a  companionship,  altogether  too  much 
spending;  but  in  this  case  the  life  was  redeemed  from  its 
usual  significance  by  a  fantastic  spirit  of  play,  a  generosity 
of  soul,  a  regard  for  the  unfortunate,  a  courtliness  toward 
all  the  world,  a  refusal  to  believe  in  meanness  or  sordidness 
or  cruelty.  Chuck  Gates  was  inbred  with  the  spirit  of 
noblesse  oblige. 

As  soon  as  motor  cars  came  in  Chuck  had  the  raciest 
possible.  With  it  he  managed  to  frighten  a  good  many 
people  half  out  of  their  wits.  He  had  no  accidents,  partly 
because  he  was  a  very  good  heady  driver,  and  partly  be- 
cause those  whom  he  encountered  were  quick  witted.  One 
day  while  touring  in  the  south  he  came  down  grade  around 
a  bend  squarely  upon  a  car  ascending.  Chuck's  car  was 
going  too  fast  to  be  stopped.  He  tried  desperately  to 
wrench  it  from  the  road,  but  perceived  at  once  that  this 
was  impossible  without  a  fatal  skid.  Fortunately  the  only 
turnout  for  a  half  mile  happened  to  be  just  at  that  spot. 
The  other  man  managed  to  jump  his  car  out  on  this  little 

184 


THE    TIDE 

side  ledge  and  to  jam  on  his  brakes  at  the  very  brink,  just 
as  Chuck  flashed  by.  His  mud  guards  slipped  under  those 
at  the  rear  of  the  other  car. 

"Close,"  observed  Chuck  to  Joe  Merrill  his  companion, 
"I  was  going  a  little  too  fast,"  and  thought  no  more  of  it. 

But  the  other  man,  being  angry,  turned  around  and 
followed  him  into  town.  At  the  garage  he  sought  Chuck 
out. 

"Didn't  you  pass  me  on  the  grade  five  miles  back?"  he 
inquired. 

"I  may  have  done  so,"  replied  Chuck,  courteously. 

"Don't  you  realize  that  you  were  going  altogether  too 
fast  for  a  mountain  grade?  that  you  were  completely  out 
of  control?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  admit  that  that  is  so." 

"Well,"  said  the  other  man,  with  difficulty  suppressing 
his  anger.  "What  do  you  suppose  would  have  happened  if 
I  hadn't  just  been  able  to  pull  out?" 

"Why,"  replied  Chuck,  blandly,  "I  suppose  I'd  have 
had  to  pay  heavily;  that's  all." 

"Pay!"  cried  the  man,  then  checked  himself  with  an 
effort,  "so  you  imagine  you  are  privileged  to  the  road,  do 
whatever  damage  you  please — and  pay  I  I'll  just  take 
your  number." 

"That  is  unnecessary.  My  name  is  Charles  Gates,"  re- 
plied Chuck,  "of  San  Francisco." 

The  man  appeared  never  to  have  heard  of  this  potent 
cognomen.  A  month  later  the  trial  came  off.  It  was  most 
inconvenient.  Chuck  was  in  Oregon,  hunting.  He  had 
to  travel  many  hundreds  of  miles,  to  pay  an  expensive 


THE    KILLER 

lawyer.  In  the  end  he  was  fined.  The  whole  affair  dis- 
gusted him,  but  he  went  through  with  it  well,  testified 
without  attempt  at  evasion.  It  was  a  pity;  but  evidently 
the  other  man  was  no  gentleman. 

"I  acknowledged  I  was  wrong,"  he  told  Joe  Merrill. 
He  honestly  felt  that  this  would  have  been  sufficient  had 
the  cases  been  reversed.  In  answer  to  a  question  as  to 
whether  he  considered  it  fair  to  place  the  burden  of  safety 
on  the  other  man,  he  replied: 

"Among  motorists  it  is  customary  to  exchange  the  cour- 
tesies of  the  road — and  sometimes  the  discourtesies,"  he 
added  with  a  faint  scorn. 

The  earthquake  and  fire  of  1906  caught  him  in  town. 
During  three  days  and  nights  he  ran  his  car  for  the  benefit 
of  the  sufferers;  going  practically  without  food  or  sleep, 
exercising  the  utmost  audacity  and  ingenuity  in  getting 
supplies,  running  fearlessly  many  dangers. 

For  the  rest  he  played  polo  well,  shot  excellently  at  the 
traps,  was  good  at  tennis,  golf,  bridge.  Naturally  he  be- 
longed to  the  best  clubs  both  city  and  country.  He  sailed 
a  yacht  expertly,  was  a  keen  fisherman,  hunted.  Also 
he  played  poker  a  good  deal  and  was  noted  for  his  accurate 
taste  in  dress. 

His  mother  firmly  believed  that  he  caused  her  much 
sorrow;  his  sisters  looked  up  to  him  with  a  little  awe;  his 
father  down  on  him  with  a  fiercely  tolerant  contempt. 

For  Chuck  had  had  his  turn  in  the  offices.  His  mind 
was  a  good  one;  his  education  both  formal  and  informal, 
had  trained  it  fairly  well;  yet  he  could  not  quite  make  good. 
Energetic,  ambitious,  keen  young  men,  clambering  upward 

1 86 


THE    TIDE 

from  the  ruck,  gave  him  points  at  the  game  and  then  beat 
him.  It  was  humiliating  to  the  old  man.  He  could  not 
see  the  perfectly  normal  reason.  These  young  men  were 
striving  keenly  for  what  they  had  never  had.  Chuck  was 
asked  merely  to  add  to  what  he  already  had  more  than 
enough  of  by  means  of  a  game  that  itself  did  not  interest 
him. 

Late  one  evening  Chuck  and  some  friends  were  dining 
at  the  Cliff  House.  They  had  been  cruising  up  toward 
Tomales  Bay,  and  had  had  themselves  put  ashore  here.  No 
one  knew  of  their  whereabouts.  Thus  it  was  that  Chuck 
first  learned  of  his  father's  death  from  apoplexy  in  the 
scareheads  of  an  evening  paper  handed  him  by  the  major- 
domo.  He  read  the  article  through  carefully,  then  went 
alone  to  the  beach  below.  It  had  been  the  usual  sensational 
article;  and  but  two  sentences  clung  to  Chuck's  memory: 
"This  fortunate  young  man's  income  will  actually  amount 
to  about  ten  dollars  a  minute.  What  a  significance  have 
now  his  days — and  nights!" 

He  looked  out  to  sea  whence  the  waves,  in  ordered  rank, 
cast  themselves  on  the  shore,  seethed  upward  along  the 
sands,  poised,  and  receded.  His  thoughts  were  many,  but 
they  always  returned  to  the  same  point.  Ten  dollars  a 
minute — roughly  speaking,  seven  thousand  a  day!  What 
would  he  do  with  it?  "What  a  significance  have  now  his 
days — and  nights ! " 

His  best  friend,  Joe  Merrill,  came  down  the  path  to 
him,  and  stood  silently  by  his  side. 

"I'm  sorry  about  your  governor,  old  man,"  he  ventured; 
and  then,  after  a  long  time : 

187 


THE    KILLER 

"You're  the  richest  man  in  the  West." 

Chuck  Gates  arose.  A  wave  larger  than  the  rest  thun- 
dered and  ran  hissing  up  to  their  feet. 

"I  wonder  if  the  tide  is  coming  in  or  going  out/'  said 
Chuck,  vaguely. 


188 


CLIMBING   FOR  GOATS 

CHAPTER  I 

Near  the  point  at  which  the  great  Continental  Divide 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  crosses  the  Canadian  border 
another  range  edges  in  toward  it  from  the  south.  Be- 
tween these  ranges  lies  a  space  of  from  twenty  to  forty 
miles;  and  midway  between  them  flows  a  clear,  wonderful 
river  through  dense  forests.  Into  the  river  empty  other, 
tributary,  rivers  rising  in  the  bleak  and  lofty  fastnesses 
of  the  mountains  to  right  and  left.  Between  them,  in 
turn,  run  spur  systems  of  mountains  only  a  little  less  lofty 
than  the  parent  ranges.  Thus  the  ground  plan  of  the 
whole  country  is  a  good  deal  like  that  of  a  leaf:  the  main 
stem  representing  the  big  river,  the  lateral  veins  its  afflu- 
ents; the  tiny  veins  its  torrents  pouring  from  the  sides  of 
its  mountains  and  glaciers;  and  the  edges  of  the  leaf  and  all 
spaces  standing  for  mountains  rising  very  sheer  and  abrupt 
from  the  floor  of  the  densely  forested  stream  valleys.  In 
this  country  of  forty  miles  by  five  hundred,  then,  are  hun- 
dreds of  distinct  ranges,  thousands  of  peaks,  and  innumera- 
ble valleys,  pockets,  and  " parks."  A  wilder,  lonelier, 
grander  country  would  be  hard  to  find.  Save  for  the  Forest 
Service  and  a  handful  of  fur  trappers,  it  is  uninhabited. 
Its  streams  abound  in  trout;  its  dense  forests  with  elk 


THE    KILLER 

and  white-tailed  deer;  its  balder  hills  with  blacktail  deer; 
its  upper  basins  with  grizzly  bears;  its  higher  country 
with  sheep  and  that  dizzy  climber  the  Rocky  Mountain 
goat. 

He  who  would  enter  this  region  descends  at  a  little  station 
on  the  Great  Northern,  and  thence  proceeds  by  pack  train 
at  least  four  days,  preferably  more,  out  into  the  wilderness. 
The  going  is  through  forests,  the  tree  trunks  straight  and 
very  close  together,  so  that  he  will  see  very  little  of  the  open 
sky  and  less  of  the  landscape.  By  way  of  compensation 
the  forest  itself  is  remarkably  beautiful.  Its  undergrowth, 
though  dense,  is  very  low  and  even,  not  more  than  a  foot 
or  so  off  the  ground;  and  in  the  Hunting  Moon  the  leaves 
of  this  undergrowth  have  turned  to  purest  yellow,  without 
touch  or  trace  of  red,  so  that  the  sombre  forest  is  carpeted 
with  gold.  Here  and  there  shows  a  birch  or  aspen,  also 
bright,  pure  light  yellow,  as  though  a  brilliant  sun  were 
striking  down  through  painted  windows.  Groups  of  yellow- 
leafed  larches  add  to  the  splendour.  And  close  to  the 
ground  grow  little  flat  plants  decked  out  with  red  or  blue 
or  white  wax  berries,  Christmas  fashion. 

In  this  green-and-gold  room  one  journeys  for  days.  Oc- 
casionally a  chance  opening  affords  a  momentary  glimpse 
of  hills  or  of  the  river  sweeping  below;  but  not  for  long. 
It  is  a  chilly  room.  The  frost  has  hardened  the  mud  in  the 
trail.  One's  feet  and  hands  ache  cruelly.  At  night  camp  is 
made  near  the  banks  of  the  river,  whence  always  one  may 
in  a  few  moments  catch  as  many  trout  as  are  needed,  fine, 
big,  fighting  trout. 

By  the  end  of  three  or  four  days  the  prospect  opens  out. 

190 


CLIMBING    FOR    GOATS 

Tremendous  cliffs  rise  sheer  from  the  bottom  of  the  valley; 
up  tributary  canons  one  can  see  a  dozen  miles  to  distant 
snow  ranges  glittering  and  wonderful.  Nearer  at  hand  the 
mountains  rise  above  timber  line  to  great  buttes  and  preci- 
pices. 


191 


CHAPTER  H 

THE  FIRST  CLIMB 

Fisher,  Frank,  and  I  had  been  hunting  for  elk  in  the  dense 
forests  along  the  foot  of  one  of  these  mountains;  and  for  a 
half  day,  drenched  with  sweat,  had  toiled  continuously  up 
and  down  steep  slopes,  trying  to  go  quietly,  trying  to  keep 
our  wind,  trying  to  pierce  the  secrets  of  the  leafy  screen 
always  about  us.  We  were  tired  of  it. 

"Let's  go  to  the  top  and  look  for  goats,"  suggested  Frank. 
"There  are  some  goat  cliffs  on  the  other  side  of  her.  It 
isn't  very  far." 

It  was  not  very  far,  as  measured  by  the  main  ranges,  but 
it  was  a  two  hours'  steady  climb  nearly  straight  up.  We 
would  toil  doggedly  for  a  hundred  feet,  or  until  our  wind  gave 
out  and  our  hearts  began  to  pound  distressingly;  then  we 
would  rest  a  moment.  After  doing  this  a  few  hundred 
times  we  would  venture  a  look  upward,  confidently  expect- 
ing the  summit  to  be  close  at  hand.  It  seemed  as  far  as 
ever.  We  suffered  a  dozen  or  so  of  these  disappointments, 
and  then  learned  not  to  look  up.  This  was  only  after  we 
had  risen  above  timber  line  to  the  smooth,  rounded  rock- 
and-grass  shoulder  of  the  mountain.  Then  three  times  we 
made  what  we  thought  was  a  last  spurt,  only  to  find  our- 
selves on  a  "false  summit."  After  a  while  we  grew  resigned, 
we  realized  that  we  were  never  going  to  get  anywhere,  but 

192 


CLIMBING    FOR    GOATS 

were  to  go  on  forever,  without  ultimate  purpose  and  without 
hope,  pushing  with  tired  legs,  gasping  with  inadequate 
lungs.  When  we  had  fully  made  up  our  minds  to  that, 
we  arrived.  This  is  typical  of  all  high-mountain  climbing 
—the  dogged,  hard,  hopeless  work  that  can  never  reach  an 
accomplishment;  and  then  at  last  the  sudden,  unexpected 
culmination. 

We  topped  a  gently  rounding  summit;  took  several  deep 
breaths  into  the  uttermost  cells  of  our  distressed  lungs; 
walked  forward  a  dozen  steps — and  found  ourselves  looking 
over  the  sheer  brink  of  a  precipice.  So  startlingly  unfore- 
seen was  the  swoop  into  blue  space  that  I  recoiled  hastily, 
feeling  a  little  dizzy.  Then  I  recovered  and  stepped  for- 
ward cautiously  for  another  look.  As  with  all  sheer  pre- 
cipices, the  lip  on  which  we  stood  seemed  slightly  to  over- 
hang, so  that  in  order  to  see  one  had  apparently  to  crane 
away  over,  quite  off  balance.  Only  by  the  strongest  effort 
of  the  will  is  one  able  to  rid  oneself  of  the  notion  that  the 
centre  of  gravity  is  about  to  plunge  one  off  head  first  into 
blue  space.  For  it  was  fairly  blue  space  below  our  precipice. 
We  could  see  birds  wheeling  below  us;  and  then  below  them 
again,  very  tiny,  the  fall  away  of  talus,  and  the  tops  of 
trees  in  the  basin  below.  And  opposite,  and  all  around, 
even  down  over  the  horizon,  were  other  majestic  peaks, 
peers  of  our  own,  naked  and  rugged.  From  camp  the  great 
forests  had  seemed  to  us  the  most  important,  most  domi- 
nant, most  pervading  feature  of  the  wilderness.  Now  in 
the  high  sisterhood  of  the  peaks  we  saw  they  were  as  mantles 
that  had  been  dropped  about  the  feet. 

Across  the  face  of  the  cliff  below  us  ran  irregular  tiny 


THE    KILLER 

ledges;  buttresses  ended  in  narrow  peaks;  "chimneys"  ran 
down  irregularly  to  the  talus.  Here  were  supposed  to  dwell 
the  goats. 

We  proceeded  along  the  crest,  spying  eagerly.     We  saw 
tracks;  but  no  animals.     By  now  it  was  four  o'clock,  and 
past  time  to  turn  campward.     We  struck  down  the  moun- 
tain on  a  diagonal  that  should  take  us  home.     For  some 
distance  all  went  well  enough.    To  be  sure,  it  was  very 
steep,  and  we  had  to  pay  due  attention  to  balance  and  slid- 
ing.   Then  a  rock  wall  barred  our  way.     It  was  not  a  very 
large  rock  wall.     We  went  below  it.    After  a  hundred 
yards  we  struck  another.     By  now  the  first  had  risen  until 
it  towered  far  above  us,  a  sheer,  gray  cliff  behind  which  the 
sky  was  very  blue.     We  skirted  the  base  of  the  second  and 
lower  cliff.     It  led  us  to  another;  and  to  still  another.    Each 
of  these  we  passed  on  the  talus  beneath  it;  but  with  increas- 
ing difficulty,  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  wide  ledges  were 
pinching  out.     At  last  we  found  ourselves  cut  off  from 
farther  progress.    To  our  right  rose  tier  after  tier  of  great 
cliffs,  serenely  and  loftily  unconscious  of  any  little  insects 
like  ourselves  that  might  be  puttering  around  their  feet. 
Straight  ahead  the  ledge  ceased  to  exist.     To  our  left  was 
a  hundred-foot  drop  to  the  talus  that  sloped  down  to  the 
canon.     The  canon  did  not  look  so  very  far  away,  and 
we  desired  mightily  to  reach  it.    The  only  alternative 
to   getting  straight  down  was  to  climb  back  the  weary 
way  we  had  come;   and  that  meant  all  night  without 
food,    warm    clothing,    or    shelter    on    a    snow-and-ice 
mountain. 

Therefore,  we  scouted  that  hundred-foot  drop  to  our  left 

194 


CLIMBING    FOR    GOATS 

very  carefully.  It  seemed  hopeless;  but  at  last  I  found  a 
place  where  a  point  of  the  talus  ran  up  to  a  level  not  much 
below  our  own.  The  only  difficulty  was  that  between  our- 
selves and  that  point  of  talus  extended  a  piece  of  sheer  wall. 
I  slung  my  rifle  over  my  back,  and  gave  myself  to  a  serious 
consideration  of  that  wall.  Then  I  began  to  work  out  across 
its  face. 

The  principle  of  safe  climbing  is  to  maintain  always  three 
points  of  suspension:  that  it  to  say,  one  should  keep  either 
both  footholds  and  one  handhold,  or  both  handholds  and 
one  foothold.  Failing  that,  one  is  taking  long  chances. 
With  this  firmly  in  mind,  I  spidered  out  across  the  wall,  test- 
ing every  projection  and  cranny  before  I  trusted  any  weight 
to  it.  One  apparently  solid  projection  as  big  as  my  head 
came  away  at  the  first  touch,  and  went  bouncing  off  into 
space.  Finally  I  stood,  or  rather  sprawled,  almost  within 
arm's  length  of  a  tiny  scrub  pine  growing  solidly  in  a  crevice 
just  over  the  talus.  Once  there,  our  troubles  were  over; 
but  there  seemed  no  way  of  crossing.  For  the  moment  it 
actually  looked  as  though  four  feet  only  would  be  sufficient 
to  turn  us  back. 

At  last,  however,  I  found  a  toehold  half  way  across.  It 
was  a  very  slight  crevice,  and  not  more  than  two  inches  deep. 
The  toe  of  a  boot  would  just  hold  there  without  slipping. 
Unfortunately,  there  were  no  handhoMs  above  it.  After 
thinking  the  matter  over,  however,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
violate,  for  this  occasion  only,  the  rules  for  climbing.  I 
inserted  the  toe,  gathered  myself,  and  with  one  smooth 
swoop  swung  myself  across  and  grabbed  that  tiny 
pine! 


THE    KILLER 

Fisher  now  worked  his  way  out  and  crossed  in  the  same 
manner.  But  Frank  was  too  heavy  for  such  gymnastics. 
Fisher  therefore  took  a  firm  grip  on  the  pine,  inserted  his 
toe  in  the  crevice,  and  hung  on  with  all  his  strength  while 
Frank  crossed  on  his  shoulders! 


196 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  SECOND  AND  THIRD  CLIMBS 

Once  more,  lured  by  the  promise  of  the  tracks  we  had  seen, 
we  climbed  this  same  mountain,  but  again  without  results. 
By  now,  you  may  be  sure,  we  had  found  an  easier  way  home! 
This  was  a  very  hard  day's  work,  but  uneventful. 

Now,  four  days  later,  I  crossed  the  river  and  set  off  above 
to  explore  in  the  direction  of  the  Continental  Divide.  Of 
course  I  had  no  intention  of  climbing  for  goats,  or,  indeed, 
of  hunting  very  hard  for  anything.  My  object  was  an  idle 
go-look-see.  Equally,  of  course,  after  I  had  rammed  around 
most  happily  for  a  while  up  the  wooded  stream-bed  of  that 
canon,  I  turned  sharp  to  the  right  and  began  to  climb  the 
slope  of  the  spur,  running  out  at  right  angles  to  the  main 
ranges  that  constituted  one  wall  of  my  canon.  It  was 
fifteen  hundred  nearly  perpendicular  feet  of  hard  scrambling 
through  windfalls.  Then  when  I  had  gained  the  ridge,  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  keep  along  it  a  little  distance.  And 
then,  naturally,  I  saw  the  main  peaks  not  so  very  far  away; 
and  was  in  for  it! 

On  either  side  of  me  the  mountain  dropped  away  abruptly. 
I  walked  on  a  knife  edge,  steeply  rising.  Great  cations 
yawned  close  at  either  hand,  and  over  across  were  leagues 
of  snow  mountains. 

In  the  cafion  from  which  I  had  emerged  a  fine  rain  had 

197 


THE    KILLER 

been  falling.  Here  it  had  turned  to  wet  sleet.  As  I 
mounted,  the  slush  underfoot  grew  firmer,  froze,  then 
changed  to  dry,  powdery  snow.  This  change  was  interest- 
ing and  beautiful,  but  rather  uncomfortable,  for  my  boots, 
soaked  through  by  the  slush,  now  froze  solid  and  scraped 
various  patches  of  skin  from  my  feet.  It  was  interesting, 
too,  to  trace  the  change  in  bird  life  as  the  altitude  increased. 
At  snow  line  the  species  had  narrowed  down  to  a  few  ravens, 
a  Canada  jay,  a  blue  grouse  or  so,  nuthatches,  and  brown 
creepers.  I  saw  one  fresh  elk  track,  innumerable  marten, 
and  the  pad  of  a  very  large  grizzly. 

The  ridge  mounted  steadily.  After  I  had  gained  to  2,300 
feet  above  the  canon  I  found  that  the  ridge  dipped  to  a 
saddle  600  feet  lower.  It  really  grieved  me  to  give  up  that 
hard-earned  six  hundred,  and  then  to  buy  it  back  again  by 
another  hard,  slow,  toilsome  climb.  Again  I  found  my  way 
barred  by  some  unsuspected  cliffs  about  sixty  feet  in  height. 
Fortunately,  they  were  well  broken;  and  I  worked  my  way 
to  the  top  by  means  of  ledges. 

Atop  this  the  snow  suddenly  grew  deeper  and  the  ascent 
more  precipitous.  I  fairly  wallowed  along.  The  timber 
line  fell  below  me.  All  animal  life  disappeared.  My  only 
companions  were  now  at  spaced-out  and  mighty  intervals 
the  big  bare  peaks  that  had  lifted  themselves  mysteriously 
from  among  their  lesser  neighbours,  with  which  heretofore 
they  had  been  confused.  In  spite  of  very  heavy  exertions, 
I  began  to  feel  the  cold;  so  I  unslung  my  rucksack  and  put 
on  my  buckskin  shirt.  The  snow  had  become  very  light 
and  feathery.  The  high,  still  buttes  and  crags  of  the  main 
divide  were  right  before  me.  Light  fog  wreaths  drifted 

198 


CLIMBING    FOR    GOATS 

and  eddied  slowly,  now  concealing,  now  revealing  the  solemn 
crags  and  buttresses.  Over  everything — the  rocks,  the 
few  stunted  and  twisted  small  trees,  the  very  surface  of 
the  snow  itself — lay  a  heavy  rime  of  frost.  This  rime  stood 
out  in  long,  slender  needles  an  inch  to  an  inch  and  a  half  in 
length,  sparkling  and  fragile  and  beautiful.  It  seemed  that 
a  breath  of  wind  or  even  a  loud  sound  would  precipitate  the 
glittering  panoply  to  ruin;  but  in  all  the  really  awesome 
silence  and  hushed  breathlessness  of  that  strange  upper 
world  there  was  nothing  to  disturb  them.  The  only  motion 
was  that  of  the  idly-drifting  fog  wreaths;  the  only  sound  was 
that  made  by  the  singing  of  the  blood  in  my  ears!  I  felt 
as  though  I  were  in  a  world  holding  its  breath. 

It  was  piercing  cold.  I  ate  a  biscuit  and  a  few  prunes, 
tramping  energetically  back  and  forth  to  keep  warm.  I  could 
see  in  all  directions  now:  an  infinity  of  bare  peaks,  with 
hardly  a  glimpse  of  forests  or  streams  or  places  where  things 
might  live.  Goats  are  certainly  either  fools  or  great  poets. 

After  a  half  hour  of  fruitless  examination  of  the  cliffs 
I  perforce  had  to  descend.  The  trip  back  was  long.  It 
had  the  added  interest  in  that  it  was  bringing  me  nearer 
water.  No  thirst  is  quite  so  torturing  as  that  which  afflicts 
one  who  climbs  hard  in  cold,  high  altitudes.  The  throat 
and  mouth  seem  to  shrivel  and  parch.  Psychologically,  it  is 
even  worse  than  the  desert  thirst  because  in  cold  air  it  is 
unreasonable.  Finally  it  became  so  unendurable  that  I 
turned  down  from  the  spur-ridge  long  before  I  should  other- 
wise have  done  so,  and  did  a  good  deal  of  extra  work  merely 
to  reach  a  little  sooner  the  stream  at  the  bottom  of  the  canon. 
When  I  reached  it,  I  found  that  here  it  flowed  underground. 

199 


CHAPTER  IV 

OTHER  CLIMBS 

For  ten  days  we  hunted  and  fished.  When  the  oppor- 
tunity offered,  we  made  a  goat-survey  of  a  new  place. 
Finally,  as  time  grew  short,  we  realized  that  we  must  con- 
centrate our  energies  in  one  effort  if  we  were  to  get  speci- 
mens of  this  most  desirable  of  all  American  big  game. 
Therefore  Fisher,  Frank,  Harry,  and  I,  leaving  our  other 
two  companions  and  the  majority  of  the  horses  at  the  base 
camp,  packed  a  few  days'  provisions  and  started  in  for  the 
highest  peaks  of  all. 

We  journeyed  up  an  unknown  canon  eighteen  miles 
long,  heavily  wooded  in  the  bottoms,  with  great  mountains 
overhanging,  and  with  a  beautiful  clear  trout  stream  singing 
down  its  bed.  The  first  day  we  travelled  ten  hours.  One 
man  was  always  in  front  cutting  out  windfalls  or  other  ob- 
structions. I  should  be  afraid  to  guess  how  many  trees 
we  chopped  through  that  day.  Another  man  scouted 
ahead  for  the  best  route  amid  difficulties.  The  other  two 
performed  the  soul-destroying  task  of  getting  the  horses 
to  follow  the  appointed  way.  After  three  o'clock  we  began 
to  hope  for  horse  feed.  At  dark  we  reluctantly  gave  it  up. 
The  forest  remained  unbroken.  We  had  to  tie  the  poor, 
unfed  horses  to  trees,  while  we  ourselves  searched  diligently 
and  with  only  partial  success  for  tiny  spots  level  enough 

200 


CLIMBING    FOR    GOATS 

and  clear  enough  for  our  beds.  It  was  very  cold  that  night; 
and  nobody  was  comfortable;  the  horses  least  of  all. 

Next  morning  we  were  out  and  away  by  daylight.  If 
we  could  not  find  horse  feed  inside  of  four  hours,  we  would 
be  forced  to  retreat.  Three  hours  of  the  four  went  by. 
Then  Harry  and  I  held  the  horses  while  our  companions 
scouted  ahead  rapidly.  We  nearly  froze,  for  in  that  deep 
valley  the  sun  did  not  rise  until  nearly  noon.  Through 
an  opening  we  could  see  back  to  a  tremendous  sheer  butte 
rising  more  than  three  thousand  feet*  by  a  series  of  very 
narrow  terraced  ledges.  We  named  it  the  Citadel,  so  Eke 
was  it  to  an  ancient  proud  fortress. 

Fisher  reported  first.  He  had  climbed  a  tree,  but  had 
seen  no  feed.  Ten  minutes  later  Frank  returned.  He  had 
found  the  track  of  an  ancient  avalanche  close  under  the 
mountain,  and  in  that  track  grew  coarse  grasses.  We 
pushed  on,  and  there  made  camp. 

It  was  a  queer  enough  camp.  Our  beds  we  spread  in 
the  various  little  spots  among  the  roots  and  hummocks  we 
imagined  to  look  the  most  even.  The  fire  we  had  to  build 
in  quite  another  place.  All  around  us  the  lodge-pole  pines, 
firs,  and  larches  grew  close  and  dark  and  damp.  Only  to 
the  west  the  snow  ranges  showed  among  the  treetopa  like 
great,  looming  white  clouds. 

For  two  days  we  lived  high  among  the  glaciers  and  snow 
crags,  taking  tremendous  tramps,  seeing  wonderful  peaks, 
frozen  lakes,  sheer  cliffs,  the  tracks  of  grizzlies  in  numbers, 
the  tiny  sources  of  great  streams,  and  the  infinity  of  upper 
spaces.  But  no  goats;  and  no  tracks  of  goats.  Little  by 

*3,35®,  to  ke  esac  t.    We  later  measured  it. 

201 


THE    KILLER 

little  we  eliminated  the  possibilities  of  the  country  accessible 
to  us.  Leagues  in  all  directions,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  was  plenty  of  other  country,  all  equally  good  for 
goats;  but  it  was  not  within  reach  of  us  from  this  canon; 
and  our  time  was  up.  Finally,  we  dropped  back  and  made 
camp  at  the  last  feed;  a  mile  or  so  below  the  Citadel.  Two 
ranges  at  right  angles  here  converged,  and  the  Citadel  rose 
like  a  tower  at  the  corner.  Here  was  our  last  chance. 


202 


CHAPTER  V 

GOATS 

As  we  were  finishing  breakfast  my  eye  was  attracted  to  a 
snow  speck  on  the  mountainside  some  two  thousand  feet 
above  us  and  slightly  westward  that  somehow  looked  to  me 
different  from  other  snow  specks.  For  nearly  a  minute  I 
stared  at  it  through  my  glasses.  At  last  the  speck  moved. 
The  game  was  in  sight! 

We  drew  straws  for  the  shot,  and  Fisher  won.  Then 
we  began  our  climb.  It  was  the  same  old  story  of  pumping 
lungs  and  pounding  hearts;  but  with  the  incentive  before  us 
we  made  excellent  time.  A  shallow  ravine  and  a  fringe 
of  woods  afforded  us  the  cover  we  needed.  At  the  end 
of  an  hour  and  a  half  we  crawled  out  of  our  ravine  and 
to  the  edge  of  the  trees.  There  across  a  steep  canon 
and  perhaps  four  hundred  yards  away  were  the  goats,  two 
of  them,  lying  on  the  edge  of  small  cliffs.  We  could  see 
them  very  plainly,  but  they  were  too  far  for  a  sure  shot. 
After  examining  them  to  our  satisfaction  we  wormed  our 
way  back. 

"The  only  sure  way,"  I  insisted,  "is  to  climb  clear  to  the 
top  of  the  ridge,  go  along  it  on  the  other  side  until  we  are 
above  and  beyond  the  goats,  and  then  to  stalk  them  down 
hill." 

That  meant  a  lot  more  hard  work;  but  in  the  end  the  plan 

203 


THE    KILLER 

was  adopted.  We  resumed  our  interminable  and  toilsome 
climbing. 

The  ridge  proved  to  be  of  the  knife-edge  variety,  and 
covered  with  snow.  From  a  deep,  wide,  walled-in  basin  on 
the  other  side  rose  the  howling  of  two  brush  wolves.  We 
descended  a  few  feet  to  gain  safe  concealment;  walked  as 
rapidly  as  possible  to  the  point  above  the  goats;  and  then 
with  the  utmost  caution  began  our  descent. 

In  the  last  two  hundred  yards  is  the  essence  of  big-game 
stalking.  The  hunter  must  move  noiselessly,  he  must  keep 
concealed;  he  must  determine  at  each  step  just  what  the 
effect  of  that  step  has  been  in  the  matters  of  noise  and  of 
altering  the  point  of  view.  It  is  necessary  to  spy  sharply, 
not  only  from  the  normal  elevation  of  a  man's  shoulders, 
but  also  stooping  to  the  waist  line,  and  even  down  to  the 
knees.  An  animal  is  just  as  suspicious  of  legs  as  of  heads; 
and  much  more  likely  to  see  them. 

The  shoulder  of  the  mountain  here  consisted  of  a  series 
of  steep  grass  curves  ending  in  short  cliff  jump-offs.  Scat- 
tered and  stunted  trees  and  tree  groups  grew  here  and  there. 
In  thirty  minutes  we  had  made  our  distance  and  recognized 
the  fact  that  our  goats  must  be  lying  at  the  base  of  the  next 
ledge.  Motioning  Harry  to  the  left  and  Fisher  to  the  front, 
I  myself  moved  to  the  right  to  cut  off  the  game  should  it 
run  in  that  direction.  Ten  seconds  later  I  heard  Fisher 
shoot;  then  Harry  opened  up;  and  in  a  moment  a  goat  ran 
across  the  ledge  fifty  yards  below  me.  With  a  thrill  of  the 
greatest  satisfaction  I  dropped  the  gold  bead  of  my  front 
sight  on  his  shoulder! 

The  buUet  knocked  him  off  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  He  fell, 

204 


CLIMBING    FOR    GOATS 

struck  the  steep  grass  slope,  and  began  to  roll.  Over  and 
over  and  over  he  went,  gathering  speed  like  a  snowball, 
getting  smaller  and  smaller  until  he  disappeared  in  the  brush 
far  below,  a  tiny  spot  of  white. 

No  one  can  appreciate  the  feeling  of  relaxed  relief  that 
filled  me.  Hard  and  dangerous  climbs,  killing  work,  con- 
siderable hardship  and  discomfort  had  at  length  their  re- 
ward. I  could  now  take  a  rest.  The  day  was  young,  and 
I  contemplated  with  something  like  rapture  a  return  to 
camp,  and  a  good  puttery  day  skinning  out  that  goat.  In 
addition  I  was  suffering  now  from  a  splitting  headache,  the 
effects  of  incipient  snow-blindness,  and  was  generally  pretty 
wobbly. 

And  then  my  eye  wandered  to  the  left,  whence  that  goat 
had  come.  I  saw  a  large  splash  of  blood;  at  a  spot  before  I 
had  fired!  It  was  too  evident  that  the  goat  had  already 
been  wounded  by  Fisher;  and  therefore,  by  hunters  law, 
belonged  to  him! 

I  set  my  teeth  and  turned  up  the  mountain  to  regain 
the  descent  we  had  just  made.  At  the  knife-edge  top  I 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  get  my  breath  and  to  survey  the 
country.  Diagonally  across  the  basin  where  the  wolves 
were  howling,  half  way  down  the  ridge  running  at  right 
angles  to  my  own,  I  made  out  two  goats.  They  were  two 
miles  away  from  me  on  an  air  line.  My  course  was  obvious. 
I  must  proceed  along  my  ridge  to  the  Citadel,  keeping  always 
out  of  sight;  surmount  that  fortress;  descend  to  the  second 
ridge;  walk  along  the  other  side  of  it  until  I  was  above  those 
goats,  and  then  sneak  down  on  them. 

I  accomplished  the  first  two  stages  of  my  journey  all 

205 


THE    KILLER 

right,  though  with  considerably  more  difficulty  in  spots  than 
I  should  have  anticipated.  The  knife  edge  was  so  sharp 
and  the  sides  so  treacherous  that  at  times  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  travel  anywhere  but  right  on  top.  This 
would  not  do.  By  a  little  planning,  however,  I  managed 
to  reach  the  central  "keep"  of  the  Citadel:  a  high,  bleak, 
broken  pile,  flat  on  top,  with  snow  in  all  the  crevices,  and 
small  cliffs  on  all  sides.  From  this  advantage  I  could  cau- 
tiously spy  out  the  lay  of  the  land. 

Below  me  fifty  feet  dipped  the  second  ridge,  running 
nearly  at  right  angles.  It  sloped  abruptly  to  the  wolf  basin, 
but  fell  sheer  on  the  other  side  to  depths  I  could  not  at  that 
time  guess.*  A  very  few  scattered,  stunted,  and  twisted 
trees  huddled  close  down  to  the  rock  and  snow.  This 
saddle  was  about  fifty  feet  in  width  and  perhaps  five  hun- 
dred yards  in  length.  It  ended  in  another  craggy  butte 
very  much  like  the  Citadel. 

My  first  glance  determined  that  my  original  plan  would 
not  do.  The  goats  had  climbed  from  where  I  had  first  seen 
them,  and  were  now  leisurely  topping  the  saddle.  To 
attempt  to  descend  would  be  to  reveal  myself.  I  was 
forced  to  huddle  just  where  I  was.  My  hope  was  that  the 
goats  would  wander  along  the  saddle  toward  me,  and  not 
climb  the  other  butte  opposite.  Also  I  wanted  them  to 
hurry,  please,  as  the  snow  in  which  I  sat  was  cold,  and  the 
wind  piercing. 

This  apparently  they  were  not  inclined  to  do.  They 
paused,  they  nibbled  at  some  scanty  moss,  they  gazed  at 
the  scenery,  they  scratched  their  ears.  I  shifted  my  posi- 

*3,35°  feet — later  measurement. 

206 


CLIMBING    FOR    GOATS 

tion  cautiously — and  saw  below  me,*  lying  on  the  snow  at 
the  very  edge  of  the  cliff,  a  tremendous  billy !  He  had  been 
there  all  the  time;  and  I  had  been  looking  over  him! 

At  the  crack  of  the  Springfield  he  lurched  forward  and 
toppled  slowly  out  of  sight  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  The 
two  I  had  been  stalking  instantly  disappeared.  But  on 
the  very  top  of  the  butte  opposite  appeared  another.  It  was 
a  very  long  shot,f  but  I  had  to  take  chances,  for  I  could  not 
tell  whether  or  not  the  one  I  had  just  shot  was  accessible  or 
not.  On  a  guess  I  held  six  inches  over  his  back.  The  goat 
gave  one  leap  forward  into  space.  For  twenty  feet  he  fell 
spread-eagled  and  right  side  up  as  though  flying.  Then  he 
began  to  turn  and  whirl.  As  far  as  my  personal  testimony 
could  go,  he  is  falling  yet  through  that  dizzy  blue  abyss. 

"Good-bye,  billy/'  said  I,  sadly.  It  looked  then  as 
though  I  had  lost  both. 

I  worked  my  way  down  the  face  of  the  Citadel  until  I 
was  just  above  the  steep  snow  fields.  Here  was  a  drop 
of  six  feet.  If  the  snow  was  soft,  all  right.  If  it  was  frozen 
underneath,  I  would  be  very  likely  to  toboggan  off  into 
space.  I  pried  loose  a  small  rock  and  dropped  it,  watching 
with  great  interest  how  it  lit.  It  sunk  with  a  dull  plunk. 
Therefore  I  made  my  leap,  and  found  myself  waist  deep  in 
feathery  snow. 

With  what  anxiety  I  peered  over  the  edge  of  that  preci- 
pice the  reader  can  guess.  Thirty  feet  below  was  a  four- 
foot  ledge.  On  the  edge  of  that  ledge  grew  two  stunted 

*35S  Paces. 

tSomewhere  between  500  and  700  yards.    I  am  very  practised  at  pacing  and  grossing  such 
distances. 

207 


THE    KILLER 

pines  about  three  feet  in  height — and  only  two.  Against 
those  pines  my  goat  had  lodged!  In  my  exultation  I 
straightened  up  and  uttered  a  whoop.  To  my  surprise  it 
was  answered  from  behind  me.  Frank  had  followed  my 
trail.  He  had  killed  a  nanny  and  was  carrying  the  head. 
Everybody  had  goats! 

After  a  great  deal  of  manoeuvring  we  worked  our  way 
down  to  the  ledge  by  means  of  a  crevice  and  a  ten-foot  pole. 
Then  we  tied  the  goat  to  the  little  trees,  and  set  to  work. 
I  held  Frank  while  he  skinned;  and  then  he  held  me  while 
I  skinned.  It  was  very  awkward.  The  tiny  landscape 
almost  directly  beneath  us  was  blue  with  the  atmosphere 
of  distance.  A  solitary  raven  discovered  us,  and  began  to 
circle  and  croak  and  flop. 

"You'll  get  your  meal  later,"  we  told  him. 

Far  below  us,  like  suspended  leaves  swirling  in  a  wind, 
a  dense  flock  of  snowbirds  fluttered. 

We  got  on  well  enough  until  it  became  necessary  to  sever 
the  backbone.  Then,  try  as  we  would,  we  could  not  in  the 
general  awkwardness  reach  a  joint  with  a  knife.  At  last 
we  had  a  bright  idea.  I  held  the  head  back  while  Frank 
shot  the  vertebrae  in  two  with  his  rifle! 

Then  we  loosed  the  cords  that  held  the  body.  It  fell 
six  hundred  feet,  hit  a  ledge,  bounded  out,  and  so  disap- 
peared toward  the  hazy  blue  map  below.  The  raven  folded 
his  wings  and  dropped  like  a  plummet,  with  a  strange  rush- 
ing sound.  We  watched  him  until  the  increasing  speed 
of  his  swoop  turned  us  a  little  dizzy,  and  we  drew  back. 
When  we  looked  a  moment  later  he  had  disappeared  into 
the  distance — straight  down! 

208 


CLIMBING    FOR    GOATS 

Now  we  had  to  win  our  way  out.  The  trophy  we  tied 
with  a  rope.  I  climbed  up  the  pole,  and  along  the  crevice 
as  far  as  the  rope  would  let  me,  hauled  up  the  trophy, 
jammed  my  feet  and  back  against  both  sides  of  the  "chim- 
ney." Frank  then  clambered  past  me;  and  so  repeat. 

But  once  in  the  saddle  we  found  we  could  not  return  the 
way  we  had  come.  The  drop-off  into  the  feather  snow 
settled  that.  A  short  reconnaissance  made  it  very  evident 
that  we  would  have  to  go  completely  around  the  outside 
of  the  Citadel,  at  the  level  of  the  saddle,  until  we  had 
gained  the  other  ridge.  This  meant  about  three  quarters 
of  a  mile  against  the  tremendous  cliff. 

We  found  a  ledge  and  started.  Our  packs  weighed 
about  sixty  pounds  apiece,  and  we  were  forced  to  crary 
them  rather  high.  The  ledge  proved  to  be  from  six  to  ten 
feet  wide,  with  a  gentle  slope  outward.  We  could  not 
afford  the  false  steps,  nor  the  little  slips,  nor  the  overbal- 
ancings  so  unimportant  on  level  ground.  Progress  was 
slow  and  cautious.  We  could  not  but  remember  the  heart- 
stopping  drop  of  that  goat  after  we  had  cut  the  rope;  and 
the  swoop  of  the  raven.  Especially  at  the  corners  did  we 
hug  close  to  the  wall,  for  the  wind  there  snatched  at  us 
eagerly. 

The  ledge  held  out  bravely.  It  had  to;  for  there  was  no 
possible  way  to  get  up  or  down  from  it.  We  rounded  the 
shoulder  of  the  pile.  Below  us  now  was  another  landscape 
into  which  to  fall — the  valley  of  the  stream,  with  its  forests 
and  its  high  cliffs  over  the  way.  But  already  we  could 
see  our  ridge.  Another  quarter  mile  would  land  us  in 
safety. 

209 


THE    KILLER 

Without  warning  the  ledge  pinched  out.  A  narrow 
tongue  of  shale,  on  so  steep  a  slope  that  it  barely  clung  to  the 
mountain,  ran  twenty  feet  to  a  precipice.  A  touch  sent 
its  surface  rattling  merrily  down  and  into  space.  It  was 
only  about  eight  feet  across;  and  then  the  ledge  began 
again. 

We  eyed  it.  Three  steps  would  take  us  across.  Alter- 
native: return  along  the  ledge  to  attack  the  problem  ab 
initio. 

"That  shale  is  going  to  start,"  said  Frank.  "If  you  stop, 
she'll  sure  carry  you  over  the  ledge.  But  if  you  keep 
right  on  going,  fast,  I  believe  your  weight  will  carry  you 
through." 

We  readjusted  our  packs  so  they  could  not  slip  and  over- 
balance us;  we  measured  and  re-measured  with  our  eyes 
just  where  those  steps  would  fall;  we  took  a  deep  breath — 
and  we  hustled.  Behind  us  the  fine  shale  slid  sullenly  in  a 
miniature  avalanche  that  cascaded  over  the  edge.  Our 
"weight  had  carried  us  through!" 

In  camp,  we  found  that  Harry's  shooting  had  landed  a 
kid,  so  that  we  had  a  goat  apiece. 

We  rejoined  the  main  camp  next  day  just  ahead  of  a  big 
snowstorm  that  must  have  made  travel  all  but  impossible. 
Then  for  five  days  we  rode  out,  in  snow,  sleet,  and  hail. 
But  we  were  entirely  happy,  and  indifferent  to  what  the 
weather  could  do  to  us  now. 


210 


MOISTURE,    A    TRACE 

Last  fall  I  revisited  Arizona  for  the  first  time  in  many 
years.  My  ultimate  destination  lay  one  hundred  and 
twenty-eight  miles  south  of  the  railroad.  As  I  stepped  off 
the  Pullman  I  drew  deep  the  crisp,  thin  air;  I  looked  across 
immeasurable  distance  to  tiny,  brittle,  gilded  buttes;  I 
glanced  up  and  down  a  ramshackle  row  of  wooden  buildings 
with  crazy  wooden  awnings,  and  I  sighed  contentedly. 
Same  good  old  Arizona. 

The  Overland  pulled  out,  flirting  its  tail  at  me  contemptu- 
ously. A  small,  battered-looking  car,  grayed  and  caked 
with  white  alkali  dust,  glided  alongside,  and  from  under 
its  swaying  and  disreputable  top  emerged  someone  I  knew. 
Not  individually.  But  by  many  campftres  of  the  past  I 
had  foregathered  with  him  and  his  kind.  Same  old  Arizona, 
I  repeated  to  myself. 

This  person  bore  down  upon  me  and  gently  extracted  my 
bag  from  my  grasp.  He  stood  about  six  feet  three;  his  face 
was  long  and  brown  and  grave;  his  figure  was  spare  and 
strong.  Atop  his  head  he  wore  the  sacred  Arizona  high- 
crowned  hat,  around  his  neck  a  bright  bandana;  no  coat, 
but  an  unbuttoned  vest;  skinny  trousers,  and  boots.  Save 
for  lack  of  spurs  and  chaps  and  revolver  he  might  have  been 

211 


THE    KILLER 

a  moving-picture  cowboy.  The  spurs  alone  were  lacking 
from  the  picture  of  a  real  one. 

He  deposited  my  bag  in  the  tonneau,  urged  me  into  a 
front  seat,  and  crowded  himself  behind  the  wheel.  The 
effect  was  that  of  a  grown-up  in  a  go-cart.  This  particular 
brand  of  tin  car  had  not  been  built  for  this  particular  size 
of  man.  His  knees  were  hunched  up  either  side  the  steering 
column;  his  huge,  strong  brown  hands  grasped  most  com- 
petently that  toy-like  wheel.  The  peak  of  his  sombrero 
missed  the  wrinkled  top  only  because  he  sat  on  his  spine. 
I  reflected  that  he  must  have  been  drafted  into  this  job, 
and  I  admired  his  courage  in  undertaking  to  double  up  like 
that  even  for  a  short  journey. 

"Roads  good?"  I  asked  the  usual  question  as  I  slammed 
shut  the  door. 

"Fair,  suh,"  he  replied,  soberly. 

"What  time  should  we  get  in? "  I  inquired. 

"Long  'bout  six  o'clock,  suh,"  he  informed  me. 

It  was  then  eight  in  the  morning — one  hundred  and 
twenty-eight  miles — ten  hours — roads  good,  eh? — hum. 

He  touched  the  starter.  The  motor  exploded  with  a 
bang.  We  moved. 

I  looked  her  over.  On  the  running  board  were  strapped 
two  big  galvanized  tanks  of  water.  It  was  almost  distress- 
ingly evident  that  the  muffler  had  either  been  lost  or  thrown 
away.  But  she  was  hitting  on  all  four.  I  glanced  at  the 
speedometer  dial.  It  registered  the  astonishing  total  of 
29,250  miles. 

We  swung  out  the  end  of  the  main  street  and  sailed 
down  a  road  that  vanished  in  the  endless  gentle  slope  of  a 

212 


MOISTURE,    A    TRACE 

"sink."  Beyond  the  sink  the  bank  rose  again,  gently,  to 
gain  the  height  of  the  eyes  at  some  mesas.  Well  I  know 
that  sort  of  country.  One  journeyed  for  the  whole  day, 
and  the  mesas  stayed  where  they  were;  and  in  between 
were  successively  vast  stretches  of  mesquite^,  or  alkali,  or 
lava  outcrops,  or  sacatone  bottoms,  each  seeming,  while 
one  was  in  it,  to  fill  all  the  world  forever,  without  end;  and 
the  day's  changes  were  of  mirage  and  the  shifting  colours  of 
distant  hills. 

It  was  soon  evident  that  my  friend's  ideas  of  driving 
probably  coincided  with  his  ideas  of  going  up  a  mountain. 
When  a  mounted  cowboy  climbs  a  hill  he  does  not  believe  in 
fussing  with  such  nonsense  as  grades;  he  goes  straight  up. 
Similarly,  this  man  evidently  considered  that,  as  roads  were 
made  for  travel  and  distance  for  annihilation,  one  should 
turn  on  full  speed  and  get  there.  Not  one  hair's  breadth 
did  he  deign  to  swerve  for  chuck-hole  or  stone;  not  one  frac- 
tional mile  per  hour  did  he  check  for  gully  or  ditch.  We 
struck  them  head-on,  bang!  did  they  happen  in  our  way. 
Then  my  head  hit  the  disreputable  top.  In  the  mysterious 
fashion  of  those  who  drive  freight  wagons  my  companion 
remained  imperturbably  glued  to  his  seat.  I  had  neither 
breath  nor  leisure  for  the  country  or  conversation. 

Thus  one  half  hour.  The  speedometer  dial  showed  the 
figures  29,260.  I  allowed  myself  to  think  of  a  possible  late 
lunch  at  my  friend's  ranch. 

We  slowed  down.  The  driver  advanced  the  hand  throttle 
the  full  sweep  of  the  quadrant,  steered  with  his  knees,  and 
produced  the  "makings."  The  faithful  little  motor  con- 
tinued to  hit  on  all  four,  but  in  slow  and  painful  succession, 

213 


THE    KILLER 

each  explosion  sounding  like  a  pistol  shot.  We  had  passed 
already  the  lowest  point  of  the  "sink,"  and  were  climbing 
the  slope  on  the  other  side.  The  country,  as  usual,  looked 
perfectly  level,  but  the  motor  knew  different. 

"I  like  to  hear  her  shoot,"  said  the  driver,  after  his  first 
cigarette.  "  That's  why  I  chucked  the  muffler.  Its  plumb 
lonesome  out  yere  all  by  yourself.  A  hoss  is  different." 

"Who  you  riding  for?" 

"Me?    I'm  riding  for  me.     This  outfit  is  mine." 

It  didn't  sound  reasonable;  but  that's  what  I  heard. 

"You  mean  you  drive  this  car — as  a  living " 

"Correct." 

"I  should  think  you'd  get  cramped!"  I  burst  out. 

"Me?  I'm  used  to  it.  I  bet  I  ain't  missed  three  days 
since  I  got  her — and  that's  about  a  year  ago." 

He  answered  my  questions  briefly,  volunteering  nothing. 
He  had  never  had  any  trouble  with  the  car;  he  had  never 
broken  a  spring;  he'd  overhauled  her  once  or  twice;  he  aver- 
aged sixteen  actual  miles  to  the  gallon.  If  I  were  to  name 
the  car  I  should  have  to  write  advt.  after  this  article  to 
keep  within  the  law.  I  resolved  to  get  one.  We  chugged 
persistently  along  on  high  gear;  though  I  believe  second 
would  have  been  better. 

Presently  we  stopped  and  gave  her  a  drink.  She 
was  boiling  like  a  little  tea  kettle,  and  she  was  pretty 
thirsty. 

"They  all  do  it,"  said  Bill.  Of  course  his  name  was 
Bill.  "Especially  the  big  he-ones.  High  altitude.  Going 
slow  with  your  throttle  wide  open.  You're  all  right  if  you 
got  plenty  water.  If  not,  why  then  ketch  a  cow  and  use 

214 


MOISTURE,    A    TRACE 

the  milk.  Only  go  slow  or  you'll  git  all  clogged  up  with 
butter." 

We  clambered  aboard  and  proceeded.  That  distant 
dreamful  mesa  had  drawn  very  near.  It  was  scandalous. 
The  aloof  desert  whose  terror,  whose  beauty,  whose  won- 
der, whose  allure  was  the  awe  of  infinite  space  that  could  be 
traversed  only  in  toil  and  humbleness,  had  been  contracted 
by  a  thing  that  now  said  29,265. 

"At  this  rate  we'll  get  there  before  six  o'clock,"  I  re- 
marked, hopefully. 

"Oh,  this  is  County  Highway!"  said  Bill. 

As  we  crawled  along,  still  on  high  gear — that  tin  car 
certainly  pulled  strongly — a  horseman  emerged  from  a  fold 
in  the  hills.  He  was  riding  a  sweat-covered,  mettlesome 
black  with  a  rolling  eye.  His  own  eye  was  bitter,  and  like- 
wise the  other  features  of  his  face.  After  trying  in  vain  to 
get  the  frantic  animal  within  twenty  feet  of  our  mitrailleuse, 
he  gave  it  up. 

"Got  anything  for  me?"  he  shrieked  at  Bill. 

Bill  leisurely  turned  off  the  switch,  draped  his  long  legs 
over  the  side  of  the  car,  and  produced  his  makings. 

"Nothing,  Jim.     Expaicting  of  anything?" 

"Sent  for  a  new  grass  rope.  How's  feed  down  Mogal- 
lon  way?" 

"Fair.    That  a  bronco  you're  riding? " 

"Just  backed  him  three  days  ago." 

"Amount  to  anything?" 

"That,"  said  Jim,  with  an  extraordinary  bitterness,  "is 
already  a  gaited  hoss.  He  has  fo'  gaits  now." 

"Four  gaits,"  repeated  Bill,  incredulously.    "I'm  in  the 

215 


THE    KILLER 

stink  wagon  business.     I  ain't  aiming  to  buy  no  bosses. 
What  four  gaits  you  claim  he's  got?  " 

"Start,  stumble,  fall  down  and  git  up,"  said  Jim. 

Shortly  after  this  joyous  rencontre  we  topped  the  rise, 
and,  looking  back,  could  realize  the  grade  we  had  been  as- 
cending. 

The  road  led  white  and  straight  as  an  arrow  to  dwindle! 
in  perspective  to  a  mere  thread.  The  little  car  leaped  for- 
ward on  the  invisible  down  grade.  Again  I  anchored  my- 
self to  one  of  the  top  supports.  A  long,  rangy  fowl  hap- 
pened into  the  road  just  ahead  of  us,  but  immediately 
flopped  clumsily,  half  afoot,  half  a- wing,  to  one  side  in  the 
brush,  like  a  stampeded  hen. 

"Road  runner," said  Bill,  with  a  short  laugh.  "Remember 
how  they  used  to  rack  along  in  front  of  a  hoss  for  miles, 
keeping  just  ahead,  lettin'  out  a  link  when  you  spurred  up? 
Aggravatin*  fowl!  They  got  over  tryin'  to  keep  ahead  of 
gasoline." 

In  the  white  alkaline  road  lay  one  lone,  pyramidal  rock. 
It  was  about  the  size  of  one's  two  fists  and  all  its  edges  and 
corners  were  sharp.  Probably  twenty  miles  of  dear  space 
lay  on  either  flank  of  that  rock.  Nevertheless,  our  right 
front  wheel  hit  it  square  in  the  middle.  The  car  leaped 
straight  up,  the  rock  popped  sidewise,  and  the  tire  went  off 
with  a  mighty  bang.  Bill  put  on  the  brakes,  deliberately 
uncoiled  himself,  and  descended. 

"Seems  like  tires  don't  last  no  time  at  all  in  this  coun- 
try," he  remarked,  sadly.  He  walked  around  the  car  and 
began  to  examine  the  four  wrecks  he  carried  as  spares. 
After  some  inspection  of  their  respective  merits,  he  selected 

216 


MOISTURE,     A     TRACE 

one.  "I  just  somehow  kain't  git  over  the  notion  she  ought 
to  sidestep  them  little  rocks  and  holes  of  her  own  accord," 
he  exclaimed.  "A  hoss  is  a  plumb,  narrow-minded  critter, 
but  he  knows  enough  for  that." 

While  he  changed  the  tire — which  incidentally  involved 
patching  one  of  half  a  dozen  over-worn  tubes — I  looked 
her  over  more  in  detail.  The  customary  frame,  strut  rods, 
and  torsion  rods  had  been  supplemented  by  the  most  ex- 
traordinary criss-cross  of  angle-iron  braces  it  has  ever  been 
my  fortune  to  behold.  They  ran  from  anywhere  to  every- 
where beneath  that  car.  I  began  to  comprehend  her  co- 
hesiveness. 

"Jim  Coles,  blacksmith  at  the  O  T,  puts  them  braces  in 
all  our  cars,"  explained  Bill.  "He's  got  her  down  to  a 
system." 

The  repair  finished  and  the  radiator  refilled  we  resumed 
the  journey.  It  was  now  just  eleven  o'clock.  The  odo- 
meter reading  was  29,276.  The  temperature  was  well 
up  toward  100  degrees.  But  beneath  the  disreputable  top, 
and  while  in  motion,  the  heat  was  not  noticeable.  Never- 
theless, the  brief  stop  had  brought  back  poignantly  certain 
old  days — choking  dust,  thirst,  the  heat  of  a  heavy  sun, 
the  long  day  that  led  one  nowhere— — 

The  noon  mirages  were  taking  shape,  throwing  stately 
and  slow  their  vast  illusions  across  the  horizon.  Lakes 
glimmered;  distant  ranges  took  on  the  forms  of  phantasm, 
rising  higher,  flattening,  reaching  across  space  the  arches 
of  their  spans,  rendering  unreal  a  world  of  beauty  and 
dread.  That  in  the  old  days  was  the  deliberate  fashion 
the  desert  had  of  searing  men's  souls  with  her  majesty. 

217 


THE    KILLER 

Slowly,  slowly,  the  changes  melted  one  into  the  other;  mas- 
sively, deliberately  the  face  of  the  world  was  altered;  so 
that  at  last  the  poor  plodding  human  being,  hot,  dry, 
blinded,  thirsty,  felt  himself  a  nothing  in  the  presence  of 
eternities.  Well  I  knew  that  old  spell  of  the  desert.  But 
now!  Honestly,  after  a  few  minutes  I  began  to  feel  sorry 
for  the  poor  old  desert!  Its  spells  didn't  work  for  the  sim- 
ple reason  that  we  didn't  give  it  time  I  We  charged  down  on 
its  phantom  lakes  and  disproved  them  and  forgot  them. 
We  broke  right  in  on  the  dignified  and  deliberate  scene  shift- 
ing of  mountains  and  mesas,  showed  them  up  for  the  brittle, 
dry  hills  they  were,  and  left  them  behind.  It  was  pitiful! 
It  was  as  though  a  revered  tragedian  should  overnight  find 
that  his  vogue  had  departed;  that  he  was  no  longer  getting 
over;  that  an  irreverent  upstart,  breaking  in  on  his  most 
sonorous  periods,  was  getting  laughs  with  slang.  We  had 
lots  of  water;  the  dust  we  left  behind;  it  wasn't  even  hot  in 
the  wind  of  our  going! 

In  the  shallow  crease  of  hills  a  shimmer  of  white  soon 
changed  to  evident  houses.  We  drew  into  a  straggling 
desert  town. 

It  was  typical — thirty  miles  from  the  railroad,  a  dis- 
tributing point  for  the  cattle  country.  Four  broad  build- 
ings with  peeled,  sunburned  faces,  a  wooden  house  or  so, 
and  a  dozen  flat-roofed  adobe  huts  hung  pleasingly  with 
long  strips  of  red  peppers.  Of  course  one  of  the  wooden 
buildings  was  labelled  General  Store;  and  another,  smaller, 
contained  a  barber  shop  and  postofSce  combined.  The 
third  was  barred  and  unoccupied.  The  fourth  had  been  a 
livery  stable  but  was  now  a  garage.  Six  saddle  horses 

218 


MOISTURE,    A    TRACE 

and  six  Fords  stood  outside  the  General  Store,  which  was  a 
fair  division. 

Bill  slowed  down. 

"Have  a  drink,"  I  observed,  hospitably. 

"Arizona's  a  dry  state,"  Bill  reminded  me;  but  never- 
theless stopped  and  uncoiled.  That  unbelievable  phe- 
nomenon had  escaped  my  memory.  In  the  old  days  I  used 
to  shut  my  eyes  and  project  my  soul  into  what  I  imagined 
was  the  future.  I  saw  Arizona,  embottled,  dying  in  the 
last-wet  ditch,  while  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  even  includ- 
ing Milwaukee,  bore  down  on  her  carrying  the  banners  of 
Prohibition.  So  much  for  prophecy.  I  voiced  a  thought. 

"There  must  be  an  awful  lot  of  old  timers  died  this 
spring.  You  can't  cut  them  off  short  and  hope  to  save 
them." 

Bill  grunted. 

We  entered  the  store.  It  smelled  good,  as  such  stores 
always  do — soap,  leather,  ground  coffee,  bacon,  cheese — 
all  sorts  of  things.  On  the  right  ran  a  counter  and  shelves 
of  dry  goods  and  clothing;  on  the  left  groceries,  cigars,  and 
provisions  generally.  Down  the  middle  saddles,  ropes, 
spurs,  pack  outfits,  harness,  hardware.  In  the  rear  a 
glass  cubby-hole  with  a  desk  inside.  All  that  was  custom- 
ary, right  and  proper.  But  I  noticed  also  a  glass  case  with 
spark  plugs  and  accessories;  a  rack  full  of  tires;  and  a  barrel 
of  lubricating  oil.  I  did  not  notice  any  body  polish.  By 
the  front  door  stood  a  paper-basket  whose  purport  I  under- 
stood not  at  all. 

Bill  led  me  at  once  past  two  or  three  lounging  cow  per- 
sons to  the  cubbyhole,  where  arose  a  typical  old  timer. 

219 


THE    KILLER 

"Mr.  White,  meet  Mr.  Billings,"  he  said. 

The  old  timer  grasped  me  firmly  by  the  right  hand  and 
held  tight  while  he  demanded,  as  usual,  "What  name?" 
We  informed  him  together.  He  allowed  he  was  pleased. 
I  allowed  the  same. 

"I  want  to  buy  a  yard  of  calico,"  said  Bill. 

The  old  timer  reached  beneath  the  counter  and  produced 
a  strip  of  cloth.  It  was  already  cut,  and  looked  to  be  about 
a  yard  long.  Also  it  showed  the  marks  of  loving  but  brutal 
and  soiled  hands. 

"Wrap  it  up?"  inquired  Mr.  Billings. 

"Nope,"  said  Bill,  and  handed  out  three  silver  dollars. 
Evidently  calico  was  high  in  these  parts.  We  turned  away. 

"By  the  way,  Bill,"  Mr.  Billings  called  after  us,  "I  got 
a  little  present  here  for  you.  Some  friends  sent  her  in  to  me 
the  other  day.  Let  me  know  what  you  think  of  it." 

We  turned.  Mr.  Billings  held  in  his  hand  a  sealed  quart 
bottle  with  a  familiar  and  famous  label. 

"Why,  that's  kind  of  you,"  said  Bill,  gravely.  He  took 
the  proffered  bottle,  turned  it  upside  down,  glanced  at  the 
bottom,  and  handed  it  back.  "But  I  don't  believe  I'd 
wish  for  none  of  that  particular  breed.  It  never  did  agree 
with  my  stummick." 

Without  a  nicker  of  the  eye  the  storekeeper  produced  a 
second  sealed  bottle,  identical  in  appearance  and  label 
with  the  first. 

"Try  it,"  he  urged.  "Here's  one  from  a  different  case. 
Some  of  these  yere  vintages  is  better  than  others." 

"  So  I've  noticed,"  replied  Bill,  dryly.  He  glanced  at  the 
bottom  and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket. 

220 


MOISTURE,    A    TRACE 

We  went  out.  As  we  passed  the  door  Bill,  unobserved, 
dropped  into  the  heretofore  unexplained  waste-basket  the 
yard  of  calico  he  had  just  purchased. 

"Don't  believe  I  like  the  pattern  for  my  boudoir,"  he 
told  me,  gravely. 

We  clambered  aboard  and  shot  our  derisive  exhaust  at  the 
diminishing  town. 

"Thought  Arizona  was  a  dry  state/7  I  suggested. 

"  She  is.  You  cain't  sell  a  drop.  But  you  can  keep  stuff 
for  personal  use.  There  ain't  nothing  more  personal  than 
givin'  it  away  to  your  friends." 

"The  price  of  calico  is  high  down  here." 

"And  goin'  up,"  agreed  Bill,  gloomily.  He  drove  ten 
miles  in  silence  while  I,  knowing  my  type,  waited. 

"That  old  Billings  ought  to  be  drug  out  and  buried,"  he 
remarked  at  last.  "We  rode  together  on  the  Chiracahua 
range.  He  ought  to  know  better  than  to  try  to  put  it 
onto  me." 


"You  saw  that  first  bottle?  Just  plain  forty-rod  dog 
poison — and  me  payin'  three  good  round  dollars!" 

"For  calico,"  I  reminded. 

"Shore.  That's  why  he  done  it.  He  had  me— if  I 
hadn't  called  him." 

"But  that  first  bottle  was  identically  the  same  as  the 
one  you  have  in  your  pocket,"  I  stated. 

"Shore?" 

"Why,  yes — at  least — that  is,  the  bottle  and  label  were 
the  same,  and  I  particularly  noticed  the  cork  seal  looked 
intact." 

221 


THE    KILLER 

"It  was,"  agreed  Bill.  "That  cap  hasn't  never  been  dis- 
turbed. You're  right." 

"Then  what  objection " 

"It's  one  of  them  wonders  of  modern  science  that  spoils 
the  simple  life  next  to  Nature's  heart,"  said  Bill,  unex- 
pectedly. "You  hitch  a  big  hollow  needle  onto  an  electric 
light  current.  When  she  gets  hot  enough  you  punch  a  hole 
with  her  in  the  bottom  of  the  bottle.  Then  you  throw  the 
switch  and  let  the  needle  cool  off.  When  she's  cool  you 
pour  out  the  real  thing  for  your  own  use — mebbe.  Then 
you  stick  in  your  forty-cent-a-gallon  squirrel  poison.  Heat 
up  your  needle  again.  Draw  her  out  very  slow  so  the  glass 
will  close  up  behind  her.  Simple,  neat,  effective,  honest 
enough  for  down  here.  Cork  still  there,  seal  still  there, 
label  still  there.  Bottle  still  there,  except  for  a  little 
bit  of  a  wart-lookin'  bubble  in  the  bottom." 

It  was  now  in  the  noon  hour.  Knowing  cowboys  of  old 
I  expected  no  lunch.  We  racketed  along,  and  our  dust  tried 
to  catch  us,  and  sleepy,  accustomed  jack  rabbits  made  two 
perfunctory  hops  as  we  turned  on  them  the  battery  of  our 
exhaust. 

We  dipped  down  into  a  carved  bottomland,  several  miles 
wide,  filled  with  minarets,  peaks,  vermilion  towers,  and 
strange  striped  labyrinths  of  many  colours  above  which 
the  sky  showed  an  unbelievable  blue.  The  trunks  of  colos- 
sal trees  lay  about  in  numbers.  Apparently  they  had  all 
been  cross-cut  in  sections  like  those  sawed  for  shake  bolts, 
for  each  was  many  times  clearly  divided.  The  sections, 
however,  lay  all  in  place;  so  the  trunks  of  the  trees  were  as 
they  had  fallen.  About  the  ground  were  scattered  frag- 

222 


MOISTURE,    A    TRACE 

ments  of  rock  of  all  sizes,  like  lava,  but  of  all  the  colours 
of  the  giddiest  parrots .  The  tiniest  piece  had  at  least  all 
the  tints  of  the  spectrum;  and  the  biggest  seemed  to  go 
the  littlest  several  better.  They  looked  to  me  like  beautiful 
jewels.  Bill  cast  at  them  a  contemptuous  glance. 

"Every  towerist  I  take  in  yere  makes  me  stop  while 
he  sags  down  the  car  with  this  junk,"  he  said.  Whenever  I 
say  "Bill  said"  or  "I  said,"  I  imply  that  we  shrieked,  for 
always  through  that  great,  still  country  we  hustled  enveloped 
in  a  profanity  of  explosions,  creaks,  rattles,  and  hums.  Just 
now  though,  on  a  level,  we  travelled  at  a  low  gear.  "Petri- 
fied wood,"  BUI  added. 

I  swallowed  guiltily  the  request  I  was  about  to  proffer. 

The  malpais  defined  itself.  We  came  to  a  wide,  dry 
wash  filled  with  white  sand.  Bill  brought  the  little  car  to  a 
stop. 

Well  I  know  that  sort  of  sand!  You  plunge  rashly  into 
it  on  low  gear;  you  buzz  bravely  for  possibly  fifty  feet;  you 
slow  down,  slow  down;  your  driving  wheels  begin  to  spin — 
that  finishes  you.  Every  revolution  digs  a  deeper  hole.  It 
is  useless  to  apply  power.  If  you  are  wise  you  throw  out 
your  clutch  the  instant  she  stalls,  and  thus  save  digging 
yourself  in  unnecessarily.  But  if  you  are  really  wise 
you  don't  get  in  that  fix  at  all.  The  next  stage  is  that 
wherein  you  thrust  beneath  the  hind  wheels  certain  expedi- 
ents such  as  robes,  coats,  and  so  forth.  The  wheels, 
when  set  in  motion,  hurl  these  trivialities  yards  to  the  rear. 
The  car  then  settles  down  with  a  shrug.  About  the  time 
the  axle  is  actually  resting  on  the  sand  you  proceed  to  seri- 
ous digging,  cutting  brush,  and  laying  causeways.  Some 

223 


THE    KILLER 

sand  you  can  get  out  of  by  these  methods,  but  not  dry, 
stream-bed  sand  in  the  Southwest.  Finally  you  reach 
the  state  of  true  wisdom.  Either  you  sit  peacefully  in  the 
tonneau  and  smoke  until  someone  comes  along;  or,  if  you  are 
doubtful  of  that  miracle,  you  walk  to  the  nearest  team  and 
rope.  And  never,  never,  never  are  you  caught  again  I 
A  detour  of  fifty  miles  is  nothing  after  that! 

While  Bill  manipulated  the  makings,  I  examined  the 
prospects.  This  was  that  kind  of  a  wash;  no  doubt 
of  it! 

"How  feu*  is  the  nearest  crossing?"  I  asked,  returning. 

"About  eight  feet,"  said  he. 

My  mind,  panic-stricken,  flew  to  several  things — that 
bottle  (I  regret  that  I  failed  to  record  that  by  test  its  con- 
tents had  proved  genuine),  the  cornered  rock  we  tiad  so 
blithely  charged,  other  evidences  of  Bill's  casual  nature. 
My  heart  sank. 

"You  ain't  going  to  tackle  that  wash!"  I  cried. 

"I  shore  am,"  said  Bill. 

I  examined  Bill.     He  meant  it. 

"How  far  to  the  nearest  ranch?" 

"'Bout  ten  mile." 

I  went  and  sat  on  a  rock.  It  was  one  of  those  rainbow 
remnants  of  a  bygone  past;  but  my  interest  in  curios  had 
waned. 

Bill  dove  into  the  grimy  mysteries  of  under  the  back  seat 
and  produced  two  blocks  of  wood  six  or  eight  inches  square 
and  two  strong  straps  with  buckles.  He  inserted  a  block 
between  the  frame  of  the  car  and  the  rear  axle;  then  he  ran  a 
strap  around  the  rear  spring  and  cinched  on  it  until  the  car 

224 


MOISTURE,    A    TRACE 

body,  the  block,  and  the  axle  made  one  solid  mass.  In 
other  words,  the  spring  action  was  entirely  eliminated.  He 
did  the  same  thing  on  the  other  side. 

"Climb  in,"  said  he. 

We  went  into  low  and  slid  down  the  steep  day  bank  into 
the  waiting  sand.  To  me  it  was  like  a  plunge  into  ice  water. 
Bill  stepped  on  her.  We  ploughed  out  into  trouble.  The 
steering  wheel  bucked  and  jerked  vainly  against  Bill's 
huge  hands;  we  swayed  like  a  moving-picture  comic;  but 
we  forged  steadily  ahead.  Not  once  did  we  falter.  Our 
wheels  gripped  continuously.  When  we  pulled  out  on 
the  other  bank  I  exhaled  as  though  I,  too,  had  lost  my 
muffler.  I  believe  I  had  held  my  breath  the  whok  way 
across.  Bill  removed  the  blocks  and  gave  her  more  water. 
Still  in  low  we  climbed  out  of  the  malpais. 

It  was  now  after  two  o'clock.  We  registered  29,328. 
I  was  getting  humble  minded.  Six  o'clock  looked  good 
enough  to  me  now. 

One  thing  was  greatly  encouraging.  As  we  rose  again  to 
the  main  level  of  the  country  I  recognized  over  the  horizon 
a  certain  humped  mountain.  Often  in  the  "good  old  days " 
I  had  approached  this  mountain  from  the  south.  Beneath 
its  flanks  lay  my  friend's  ranch,  our  destination.  Five 
hours  earlier  in  my  experience  its  distance  would  have 
appalled  me ;  but  my  standards  had  changed.  Nevertheless, 
it  seemed  far  enough  away.  I  was  getting  physically  tired. 
There  is  a  heap  of  exercise  in  many  occupations,  such  as 
digging  sewers  and  chopping  wood  and  shopping  with  a 
woman;  but  driving  in  small  Arizona  motor  cars  need 
give  none  of  these  occupations  any  odds.  And  of  late 

225 


THE    KILLER 

years  I  have  been  accustoming  myself  to  three  meals  a 
day. 

For  this  reason  there  seems  no  excuse  for  detailing  the 
next  three  hours.  From  three  o'clock  until  sunset  the  mir- 
ages slowly  fade  away  into  the  many-tinted  veils  of  evening. 
I  know  that  because  I've  seen  it;  but  never  would  I  know  it 
whilst  an  inmate  of  a  gasoline  madhouse.  We  carried  our 
own  egg-shaped  aura  constantly  with  us,  on  the  invisible 
walls  of  which  the  subtle  and  austere  influences  of  the  desert 
beat  in  vain.  That  aura  was  composed  of  speed,  bumps, 
dust,  profane  noise,  and  an  extreme  and  exotic  busyness. 
It  might  be  that  in  a  docile,  tame,  expensive  automobile, 
garnished  with  a  sane  and  biddable  driver,  one  might 
see  the  desert  as  it  is.  I  don't  know  whether  such  a 
combination  exists.  But  me — I  couldn't  get  into  the  Offi- 
cers' Training  Camp  because  of  my  advanced  years :  I  may 
be  an  old  fogy,  but  I  cherish  a  sneaking  idea  that  perhaps 
you  have  to  buy  some  of  these  things  at  the  cost  of  the  afore- 
mentioned thirst,  heat,  weariness,  and  the  slow  passing  of 
long  days.  Still,  an  Assyrian  brick  in  the  British  Museum 
is  inscribed  by  a  father  to  his  son  away  at  school  with  a 
lament  over  the  passing  of  the  "good  old  days!" 

At  any  rate,  we  drew  into  Spring  Creek  at  five  o'clock, 
shooting  at  every  jump.  My  friend's  ranch  was  only  six 
miles  farther.  This  was  home  for  Bill,  and  we  were  soon 
surrounded  by  many  acquaintances.  He  had  letters 
and  packages  for  many  of  them;  and  detailed  many  items 
of  local  news.  To  us  shortly  came  a  cowboy  who  had 
evidently  bought  all  the  calico  he  could  carry.  This  per- 
son was  also  long  and  lean  and  brown;  hard  bitten;  be- 

226 


MOISTURE,    A    TRACE 

decked  with  worn  brown  leather  chaps,  and  wearing  a  gun. 
The  latter  he  unbuckled  and  cast  from  him  with  great 
scorn. 

"And  I  don't  need  no  gun  to  do  it,  neither!"  he  stated,  as 
though  concluding  a  long  conversation. 

"Shore  not,  Slim/'  agreed  one  of  the  group,  promptly 
annexing  the  artillery.  "What  is  it? " 

"Kill  that  -  -  Beck,"  said  Slim,  owl- 

ishly.  "I  can  do  it;  and  I  can  do  it  with  my  bare  hands, 
b'  God!" 

He  walked  sturdily  enough  in  the  direction  of  the  General 
Store  across  the  dusty  square.  No  one  paid  any  further 
attention  to  his  movements.  The  man  who  had  picked  up 
the  gun  belt  buckled  it  around  his  own  waist.  Bill  refilled 
the  ever-thirsty  radiator,  peered  at  his  gasoline  gauge, 
leisurely  turned  down  a  few  grease  cups.  Ten  minutes 
passed.  We  were  about  ready  to  start. 

Back  across  the  square  drifted  a  strange  figure.  With 
difficulty  we  recognized  it  as  the  erstwhile  Slim.  He  had 
no  hat.  His  hair  stuck  out  in  all  directions.  One  eye 
was  puffing  shut,  blood  oozed  from  a  cut  in  his  forehead 
and  dripped  from  his  damaged  nose.  One  shirt  sleeve  had 
been  half  torn  from  its  parent  at  the  shoulder.  But,  most 
curious  of  all,  Slim's  face  was  evenly  marked  by  a  perpen- 
dicular series  of  long,  red  scratches  as  though  he  had  been 
dragged  from  stem  to  stern  along  a  particularly  abrasive 
gravel  walk.  Slim  seemed  quite  calm. 

His  approach  was  made  in  a  somewhat  strained  silence. 
At  length  there  spoke  a  dry,  sardonic  voice. 

"Well,"  said  it,  "did  you  kill  Beck?" 

227 


THE    KILLER 

"Naw!"  replied  Slim's  remains  disgustedly,  "the  son  of 
a  gun  wouldn't  fight ! " 

We  reached  my  friend's  ranch  just  about  dusk.  He  met 
me  at  the  yard  gate. 

"  Well ! "  he  said,  heartily.  "  I'm  glad  you're  here !  Not 
much  like  the  old  days,  is  it?" 

I  agreed  with  him. 

"  Journey  out  is  dull  and  uninteresting  now.  But  com- 
pared to  the  way  we  used  to  do  it,  it  is  a  cinch.  Just  sit  still 
and  roll  along." 

I  disagreed  with  him— mentally. 

"The  old  order  has  changed,"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  I  agreed,  "now  it's  one  yard  of  calico." 


228 


THE    RANCH 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  NEW  AND  THE   OLD 

The  old  ranching  days  of  California  are  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  past  and  gone.  To  be  sure  there  remain  many 
large  tracts  supporting  a  single  group  of  ranch  buildings, 
and  over  which  the  cattle  wander  "on  a  thousand  hills." 
There  are  even  a  few,  a  very  few — like  the  ranch  of  which 
I  am  going  to  write — that  are  still  undivided,  still  game 
haunted,  still  hospitable,  still  delightful.  But  in  spite  of 
these  apparent  exceptions,  my  first  statement  must  stand. 
About  the  large  tracts  swarm  real  estate  men,  eager  for 
the  chance  to  subdivide  into  small  farms — and  the  small 
farmers  pour  in  from  the  East  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand  a 
month.  No  matter  how  sternly  the  old  land-lords  set 
their  faces  against  the  new  order  of  things,  the  new  order  of 
things  will  prevail;  for  sooner  or  late  old  land-lords  must 
die,  and  the  heirs  have  not  in  them  the  spirit  of  the  ancient 
tradition.  This  is,  of  course,  best  for  the  country  and  for 
progress;  but  something  passes,  and  is  no  more.  So  the 
Chino  ranch  and  more  recently  Lucky  Baldwin's  broad 
acres  have  yielded. 

And  even  in  the  case  of  those  that  still  remain  intact, 

229 


THE    KILLER 

whose  wide  hills  and  plains  graze  thousands  of  head  of 
cattle;  whose  pastures  breed  their  own  cowhorses;  whose 
cowmen,  wearing  still  with  a  twist  of  pride  the  all-but- 
vanished  regalia  of  their  all-but-vanished  calling,  refuse  to 
drop  back  to  the  humdrum  status  of  "farm  hands  on  a 
cow  ranch";  even  here  has  entered  a  single  element  power- 
ful enough  to  change  the  old  to  something  new.  The  new 
may  be  better — it  is  certainly  more  convenient — and  per- 
haps when  all  is  said  and  done  we  would  not  want  to  go  back 
to  the  old.  But  the  old  is  gone.  One  single  modern  insti- 
tution has  been  sufficient  to  render  it  completely  of  the  past. 
That  institution  is  the  automobile. 

In  the  old  days — and  they  are  but  yesterdays,  after  all — 
the  ranch  was  perforce  an  isolated  community.  The 
journey  to  town  was  not  to  be  lightly  undertaken;  indeed, 
as  far  as  might  be,  it  was  obviated  altogether.  Blacksmith- 
ing,  carpentry,  shoe  cobbling,  repairing,  barbering,  and 
even  mild  doctoring  were  all  to  be  done  on  the  premises. 
Nearly  every  item  of  food  was  raised  at  home,  including 
vegetables,  fruit,  meat,  eggs,  fowl,  butter,  and  honey. 
Above  all,  the  inhabitants  of  that  ranch  settled  down  com- 
fortably into  the  realization  that  their  only  available 
community  was  that  immediately  about  them ;  and  so  they 
both  made  and  were  influenced  by  the  individual  atmos- 
phere of  the  place. 

In  the  latter  years  they  have  all  purchased  touring 
cars,  and  now  they  run  to  town  casually,  on  almost  any  ex- 
cuse. They  make  shopping  lists  as  does  the  city  dweller; 
they  go  back  for  things  forgotten;  and  they  return  to  the 
ranch  as  one  returns  to  his  home  on  the  side  streets  of  a 

230 


THE    RANCH 

great  city.  In  place  of  the  old  wonderful  and  impressive 
expeditions  to  visit  in  state  the  nearest  neighbour  (twelve 
miles  distant),  they  drop  over  of  an  afternoon  for  a  ten- 
minutes'  chat.  The  ranch  is  no  longer  an  environment  in 
which  one  finds  the  whole  activity  of  his  existence,  but  a 
dwelling  place  from  which  one  goes  forth. 

I  will  admit  that  this  is  probably  a  distinct  gain;  but 
the  fact  is  indubitable  that,  even  in  these  cases  where  the 
ranch  life  has  not  been  materially  changed  otherwise,  the 
automobile  has  brought  about  a  condition  entirely  new. 
And  as  the  automobile  has  fortunately  come  to  stay,  the  old 
will  never  return.  It  is  of  the  old,  and  its  charm  and  leisure, 
that  I  wish  to  write. 


231 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   OLD  WEST 

I  went  to  the  ranch  many  years  ago,  stepping  from  the 
train  somewhere  near  midnight  into  a  cold,  crisp  air  full  of 
stars.  My  knowledge  of  California  was  at  that  time  con- 
fined to  several  seasons  spent  on  the  coast,  where  the  straw 
hat  retires  only  in  deference  to  a  tradition  which  none  of  the 
flowers  seem  bound  to  respect.  As  my  dress  accorded  with 
this  experience,  I  was  very  glad  to  be  conducted  across  the 
street  to  a  little  hotel.  My  guide  was  an  elderly,  very  brown 
man,  with  a  white  moustache,  and  the  bearing  of  an  army 
regular.  This  latter  surmise  later  proved  correct.  Manning 
was  one  of  the  numerous  old  soldiers  who  had  fought  through 
the  General's  Apache  campaigns,  and  who  now  in  his  age 
had  drifted  back  to  be  near  his  old  commander.  He  left 
me,  after  many  solicitations  as  to  my  comfort,  and  a  promise 
to  be  back  with  the  team  at  seven  o'clock  sharp. 

Promptly  at  that  hour  he  drew  up  by  the  curb.  My  kit 
bag  was  piled  aboard,  and  I  clambered  in  beside  the  driver. 
Manning  touched  his  team.  We  were  off. 

The  rig  was  of  the  sort  usual  to  the  better  California 
ranches  of  the  day,  and  so,  perhaps,  worth  description.  It 
might  best  be  defined  as  a  rather  wide,  stiff  buckboard  set 
on  springs,  and  supported  by  stout  running  gear.  The 
single  seat  was  set  well  forward,  while  the  body  of  the  rig 

212 


THE    RANCH 

extended  back  to  receive  the  light  freight  an  errand  to  town 
was  sure  to  accumulate.  An  ample  hood  top  of  gray 
canvas  could  be  raised  for  protection  against  eitiier  sun, 
wind,  or  rain.  Most  powerful  brakes  could  be  manipulated 
by  a  thrust  of  the  driver's  foot.  You  may  be  sure  they  were 
outside  brakes.  Inside  brakes  were  then  considered  the 
weak  expedients  of  a  tourist  driving  mercenary.  Generally 
the  tongue  and  moving  gear  were  painted  cream;  and  tke 
body  of  the  vehicle  dark  green. 

This  substantial,  practical,  and  business-like  vehicle 
was  drawn  by  a  pair  of  mighty  good  bright  bay  horses, 
straight  backed,  square  rumped,  deep  shouldered,  with  fine 
heads,  small  ears,  and  alert  yet  gentle  eyes  of  high-bred 
stock.  When  the  word  was  given,  they  fell  into  a  steady, 
swinging  trot.  One  felt  instinctively  the  power  of  it,  and 
knew  that  they  were  capable  of  keeping  up  this  same  gait 
all  day.  And  that  would  mean  many  miles.  Their  har- 
ness was  of  plain  russet  leather,  neat  and  well  oiled. 

Concerning  them  I  made  some  remark,  trivial  yet  enough 
to  start  Manning.  He  told  me  of  them,  and  of  their  pe- 
culiarities and  virtues.  He  descanted  at  length  on  their 
breeding,  and  whence  came  they  and  their  fathers  and  their 
fathers'  fathers  even  unto  the  sixth  generation.  He  left 
me  at  last  with  the  impression  that  this  was  probably  the 
best  team  in  the  valley,  bar  none.  It  was  a  good  team, 
strong,  spirited,  gentle,  and  enduring. 

We  swung  out  from  the  little  town  into  a  straight  road.  If 
it  has  seemed  that  I  have  occupied  you  too  exclusively  with 
objects  near  at  hand,  the  matter  could  not  be  helped.  There 
was  nothing  more  to  occupy  you.  A  fog  held  all  the  land. 

233 


THE    KILLER 

It  was  a  dense  fog,  and  a  very  cold.  Twenty  feet  ahead 
of  the  horses  showed  only  a  wall  of  white.  To  right  and 
left  dim,  ghostly  bushes  or  fence  posts  trooped  by  us  at  the 
ordered  pace  of  our  trot.  An  occasional  lone  poplar  tree 
developed  in  the  mist  as  an  object  on  a  dry  plate  develops. 
We  splashed  into  puddles,  crossed  culverts,  went  through 
all  the  business  of  proceeding  along  a  road — and  appar- 
ently got  nowhere.  The  mists  opened  grudgingly  before  us, 
and  closed  in  behind.  As  far  as  knowing  what  the  country 
was  like  I  might  as  well  have  been  blindfolded. 

From  Manning  I  elicited  piecemeal  some  few  and  vague 
ideas.  This  meagreness  was  not  due  to  a  disinclination  on 
Manning's  part,  but  only  to  the  fact  that  he  never  quite 
grasped  my  interest  in  mere  surroundings.  Yes,  said  he, 
it  was  a  pretty  flat  country,  and  some  brush.  Yes,  there 
were  mountains,  some  ways  off,  though.  Not  many  trees, 
but  some — what  you  might  call  a  few.  And  so  on,  until  I 
gave  it  up.  Mountains,  trees,  brush,  and  flat  land!  One 
could  construct  any  and  all  landscapes  with  such  building 
blocks  as  those. 

Now,  as  has  been  hinted,  I  was  dressed  for  southern 
California;  and  the  fog  was  very  damp  and  chill.  The 
light  overcoat  I  wore  failed  utterly  to  exclude  it.  At  first 
I  had  been  comfortable  enough,  but  as  mile  succeeded  mile 
the  cold  of  that  winter  land  fog  penetrated  to  the  bone.  In 
answer  to  my  comment  Manning  replied  cheerfully  in  the 
words  of  an  old  saw: 

" A  winter's  fog 

Will  freeze  a  dog" 
said  he. 

234 


THE    RANCH 

I  agreed  with  him.  We  continued  to  jog  on.  Manning 
detailed  what  I  then  thought  were  hunting  lies  as  to  the 
abundance  of  game;  but  which  I  afterward  discovered  were 
only  sober  truths.  When  too  far  gone  in  the  miseries  of 
abject  cold  I  remembered  his  former  calling,  and  glancing 
sideways  at  his  bronzed,  soldierly  face,  wished  I  had  gump- 
tion enough  left  to  start  him  going  on  some  of  his  Indian 
campaigns.  It  was  too  late;  I  had  not  the  gumption;  I 
was  too  cold. 

Now  I  believe  I  am  fairly  well  qualified  to  know  when  I 
really  feel  cold.  I  have  slept  out  with  the  thermometer  out 
of  sight  somewhere  down  near  the  bulb;  I  once  snowshoed 
nine  miles;  and  then  overheated  from  that  exertion,  drove 
thirty-five  without  additional  clothing.  On  various  other 
occasions  I  have  had  experiences  that  might  be  called  frigid. 
But  never  have  I  been  quite  so  deadly  cold  as  on  that 
winter  morning's  drive  through  the  land  fog  of  semi-tropical 
California.  It  struck  through  to  the  very  heart. 

I  subsequently  discovered  that  it  takes  two  hours  and 
three  quarters  to  drive  to  the  ranch.  That  is  a  long  time 
when  one  has  nothing  to  look  at,  and  when  one  is  cold. 
In  fact,  it  is  so  long  that  one  loses  track  of  time  at  all,  and 
gradually  relapses  into  that  queer  condition  of  passive 
endurance  whereto  is  no  end  and  no  beginning.  Therefore 
the  end  always  comes  suddenly,  and  as  a  surprise. 

So  it  was  in  this  case.  Out  of  the  mists  sprang  suddenly 
two  tall  fan  palms,  and  then  two  others,  and  still  others. 
I  realized  dimly  that  we  were  in  an  avenue  of  palms.  The 
wheels  grated  strangely  on  gravel.  We  swung  sharply  to 
the  left  between  hedges.  The  mass  of  a  building  loomed 

235 


THE    KILLER 

indistinctly.  Manning  applied  the  brakes.  We  stopped, 
the  steam  from  the  horses'  shining  backs  rising  straight 
up  to  mingle  with  the  fog. 

"Well,  here  we  are!"  said  Manning. 

So  we  were!  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  We  must  be 
here.  After  an  appreciable  moment  it  occurred  to  me  that 
perhaps  I'd  better  climb  down.  I  did  so,  very  slowly  and 
stiffly,  making  the  sad  mistake  of  jumping  down  from  the 
height  of  the  step.  How  that  did  injure  my  feelings !  The 
only  catastrophe  I  can  remember  comparable  to  it  was  when 
a  teacher  rapped  my  knuckles  with  a  ruler  after  I  had  been 
making  snowballs  bare  handed.  My  benumbed  faculties 
next  swung  around  to  the  proposition  of  proceeding  up 
an  interminable  gravel  walk — (it  is  twenty-five  feet  long!) 
to  a  forbidding  flight  of  stairs — (porch  steps — five  of  them !) 
I  put  this  idea  into  execution.  I  reached  the  steps.  And 
then 

The  door  was  flung  open  from  within,  I  could  see  the 
sparkle  and  leap  of  a  fine  big  grate  fire.  The  Captain 
stood  in  the  doorway,  a  broad  smile  on  his  face;  my  hostess 
smiled  another  welcome  behind  him;  the  General  roared 
still  another  from  somewhere  behind  her. 

Now  I  had  never  met  the  Captain.  He  held  out  both 
hands  in  greeting.  One  of  those  hands  was  for  me  to 
shake.  The  other  held  a  huge  glass  of  hot  scotch.  The 
hot  scotch  was  in  the  right  hand ! 


236 


CHAPTER  HI 

THE  PEOPLE  AND  THE  PLACE 

They  wanned  me  through,  and  then  another  old  soldier 
named  Redmond  took  me  up  to  show  me  where  I  lived.  We 
clambered  up  narrow  boxed  stairs  that  turned  three  ways; 
we  walked  down  a  narrow  passage;  turned  to  the  right; 
walked  down  another  narrow  passage,  climbed  three  steps 
to  open  a  door;  promptly  climbed  three  steps  down  again; 
crossed  a  screened-in  bridge  to  another  wing;  ducked 
through  a  passageway,  and  so  arrived.  The  ranch  house 
was  like  that.  Parts  of  it  were  built  out  on  stilts.  Five  or 
six  big  cottonwood  trees  grew  right  up  through  the  ve- 
randahs, and  spread  out  over  the  roof  of  the  house.  There 
are  all  sorts  of  places  where  you  hang  coats,  or  stack  guns, 
or  store  shells,  or  find  unexpected  books;  passageways  lead- 
ing to  outdoor  upstairs  screened  porches,  cubby  holes  and  the 
like.  And  whenever  you  imagine  the  house  must  be  quite 
full  of  guests,  they  can  always  discover  to  you  yet  another 
bedroom.  It  may,  at  the  last,  be  a  very  tiny  bedroom,  with 
space  enough  only  for  a  singe  bed  and  not  much  else; 
and  you  may  get  to  it  only  by  way  of  out  of  doors;  and  it 
may  be  already  fairly  well  occupied  by  wooden  decoys 
and  shotgun  shells,  but  there  it  is,  guests  and  guests  after 
you  thought  the  house  must  be  full. 

Belonging  and  appertaining  unto  the  house  were  several 

237 


THE    KILLER 

fixtures.  One  of  these  was  old  Charley,  the  Chinese  cook. 
He  had  been  there  twenty-five  years.  In  that  time  he 
had  learned  perfect  English,  acquired  our  kind  of  a  sense 
of  humour,  come  to  a  complete  theoretical  understand- 
ing of  how  to  run  a  ranch  and  all  the  people  on  it,  and 
taught  Pollymckittrick  what  she  knew. 

Pollymckittrick  was  the  bereaved  widow  of  the  noble 
pair  of  yellow  and  green  parrots  Noah  selected  for  his  ark. 
At  least  I  think  she  was  that  old.  She  was  certainly  very 
wise  in  both  Oriental  and  Occidental  wisdom.  Her  chief 
accomplishments,  other  than  those  customary  to  parrots, 
were  the  ability  to  spell,  and  to  sing  English  songs.  "After 
the  Ball"  and  " Daisy  Bell"  were  her  favourites,  rendered 
with  occasional  jungle  variations.  She  considered  Charley 
her  only  real  friend,  though  she  tolerated  some  others. 
Pollymckittrick  was  a  product  of  artificial  civilization.  No 
call  of  the  wild  in  hers!  She  preferred  her  cage,  gilded  or 
otherwise.  Each  afternoon  the  cage  was  placed  out  on  the 
lawn  so  Pollymckittrick  could  have  her  sun  bath.  One 
day  a  big  redtail  hawk  sailed  by.  Pollymckittrick  fell 
backward  off  her  perch,  flat  on  her  back.  The  sorrowing 
family  gathered  to  observe  this  extraordinary  case  of  heart 
failure.  After  an  interval  Pollymckittrick  unfilmed  one 
yellow  eye. 

"Po — o — or  Pollymckittrick!"  she  remarked. 

At  the  sight  of  that  hawk  Pollymckittrick  had  fainted! 

The  third  institution  having  to  do  with  the  house  was 
undoubtedly  Redmond.  Redmond  was  another  of  the  old 
soldiers  who  had  in  their  age  sought  out  their  beloved 
General.  Redmond  was  a  sort  of  all-round  man.  He  built 

238 


THE    RANCH 

the  fires  very  early  in  the  morning;  and  he  did  your  boots 
and  hunting  clothes,  got  out  the  decoys,  plucked  the  ducks, 
saw  to  the  shells,  fed  the  dogs,  and  was  always  on  hand  at 
arrival  and  departure  to  lend  a  helping  hand.  He  dwelt 
in  a  square  room  in  the  windmill  tower  together  with  a  black 
cat  and  all  the  newspapers  in  the  world.  The  cat  he  alter- 
nately allowed  the  most  extraordinary  liberties  or  disciplined 
rigorously.  On  the  latter  occasions  he  invariably  seized 
the  animal  and  hurled  it  bodily  through  the  open  window. 
The  cat  took  the  long  fall  quite  calmly,  and  immediately 
clambered  back  up  the  outside  stairway  that  led  to  the 
room.  The  newspapers  he  read,  and  clipped  therefrom 
items  of  the  most  diverse  nature  to  which  he  deprecatingly 
invited  attention.  Once  in  so  often  a  strange  martial  fer- 
vour would  obsess  him.  Then  the  family,  awakened  in  the 
early  dawn,  would  groan  and  turn  over,  realizing  that  its 
rest  was  for  that  morning  permanently  shattered.  The 
old  man  had  hoisted  his  colours  over  the  windmill  tower, 
and  now  in  a  frenzy  of  fervour  was  marching  around  and 
around  the  tower  beating  the  long  roll  on  his  drum.  After 
one  such  outbreak  he  would  be  his  ordinary,  humble,  quiet, 
obliging,  almost  deprecating  self  for  another  month  or  so. 
The  ranch  people  took  it  philosophically. 

The  fourth  institution  was  Nobo.  Nobo  was  a  Japanese 
woman  who  bossed  the  General.  She  was  a  square-built 
person  of  forty  or  so  who  had  also  been  with  the  family 
unknown  years.  Her  capabilities  were  undoubted;  as 
also  her  faith  in  them.  The  hostess  depended  on  her  a 
good  deal;  and  at  the  same  time  chafed  mildly  under  her 
calm  assumption  that  she  knew  perfectly  what  the  situation 

239 


THE    KILLER 

demanded.  The  General  took  her  domination  amusedly. 
To  be  sure  nobody  was  likely  to  fool  much  with  the  General. 
His  vast  good  nature  had  way  down  beneath  it  something 
that  on  occasion  could  be  stern.  Nobo  could  and  would 
tell  the  General  what  clothes  to  wear,  and  when  to  change 
them,  and  such  matters;  but  she  never  ventured  to  inhibit 
the  General's  ideas  as  to  going  forth  in  rains,  or  driving 
where  he  everlastingly  dod-blistered  pleased,  or  words  to 
that  effect,  across  country  in  his  magnificently  rattletrap 
surrey,  although  she  often  looked  very  anxious.  For  she 
adored  the  General.  But  we  all  did  that. 

As  though  the  heavy  curtain  of  fog  had  been  laid  upon 
the  land  expressly  that  I  might  get  my  first  impressions 
of  the  ranch  in  due  order,  about  noon  the  weather  cleared. 
Even  while  we  ate  lunch,  the  sun  came  out.  After  the 
meal  we  went  forth  to  see  what  we  could  see. 

The  ranch  was  situated  in  the  middle  of  a  vast  plain 
around  three  sides  of  which  rose  a  grand  amphitheatre  of 
mountains.  The  nearest  of  them  was  some  thirty  miles 
away,  yet  ordinarily,  in  this  clear,  dry,  Western  atmosphere 
they  were  always  imminent.  Over  their  eastern  ramparts 
the  sun  rose  to  look  upon  a  chill  and  frosty  world;  behind 
their  western  barriers  the  sun  withdrew,  leaving  soft  air, 
purple  shadows,  and  the  flight  of  dim,  far  wildfowl  across  a 
saffron  sky.  To  the  north  was  only  distance  and  the  fading 
of  the  blue  of  the  heavens  to  the  pearl  gray  of  the  horizon. 

So  much  if  one  stepped  immediately  beyond  the  ranch 
itself.  The  plains  were  broad.  Here  and  there  the  flat- 
ness broke  in  a  long,  low  line  of  cottonwoods  marking  the 
winding  course  of  a  slough  or  trace  of  subsoil  water.  Mes- 

240 


THE    RANCH 

quite  lay  in  dark  patches;  sagebrush;  the  green  of  pasture- 
land  periodically  overflowed  by  the  irrigation  water. 
Nearer  at  home  were  occasional  great  white  oaks,  or  hay- 
stacks bigger  than  a  house,  and  shaped  like  one. 

To  the  distant  eye  the  ranch  was  a  grove  of  trees. 
Cottonwoods  and  eucalyptus  had  been  planted  and  had 
thriven  mightily  on  the  abundant  artesian  water.  We 
have  already  noticed  the  six  or  eight  great  trees  growing 
fairly  up  through  the  house.  On  the  outskirts  lay  also  a 
fruit  orchard  of  several  hundred  acres.  Opposite  the  house, 
and  separated  from  it  by  a  cedar  hedge,  was  a  commodious 
and  attractive  bungalow  for  the  foreman.  Beyond  him 
were  the  bunk  house,  cook  houses,  blacksmith  shops,  and  the 
like. 

We  started  our  tour  of  inspection  by  exainining  and 
commenting  gravely  upon  the  dormant  rose  garden  and 
equally  dormant  grape  arbour.  Through  this  we  came 
to  the  big  wire  corrals  in  which  were  kept  the  dogs.  Here 
I  met  old  Ben. 

Old  Ben  was  not  very  old;  but  he  was  different  from  young 
Ben.  He  was  a  pointer  of  the  old-fashioned,  stocky-built, 
enduring  type  common — and  serviceable — before  our 
bench-show  experts  began  to  breed  for  speed,  fineness, 
small  size — and  lack  of  stamina.  Ben  proved  in  the  event 
to  be  a  good  all-round  dog.  He  combined  the  attributes 
of  pointer,  cocker  spaniel,  and  retriever.  In  other  words, 
he  would  hunt  quail  in  the  orthodox  fashion;  or  he  would 
rustle  into  the  mesquite  thorns  for  the  purpose  of  flushing 
them  out  to  us;  or  he  would  swim  anywhere  any  number 
of  times  to  bring  out  ducks.  To  be  sure  he  occasionally 

241 


THE    KILLER 

got  a  little  mixed.  At  times  he  might  try  to  flush  quail  in 
the  open,  instead  of  standing  them;  or  would  attempt  to  re- 
trieve some  perfectly  lively  specimens.  Then  Ben  needed 
a  licking;  and  generally  got  it.  He  lacked  in  his  work  some 
of  the  finish  and  style  of  the  dogs  we  used  after  grouse  in 
Michigan,  but  he  was  a  good  all-round  dog  for  the  work. 
Furthermore,  he  was  most  pleasant  personally. 

Next  door  to  him  lived  the  dachshunds. 

The  dachshunds  were  a  marvel,  a  nuisance,  a  bone  of 
contention,  an  anomaly,  an  accident,  and  a  farce.  They 
happened  because  somebody  had  once  given  the  hostess  a 
pair  of  them.  I  do  not  believe  she  cared  particularly  for 
them;  but  she  is  good  natured,  and  the  ranch  is  large,  and 
they  are  rather  amusing.  At  the  time  of  my  first  visit 
the  original  pair  had  multiplied.  Gazing  on  that  yardful 
of  imbecile-looking  canines,  my  admiration  for  Noah's 
wisdom  increased;  he  certainly  needed  no  more  than  a  pair 
to  restock  the  earth.  Redmond  claimed  there  were  twenty- 
two  of  them,  though  nobody  else  pretended  to  have  been 
able  to  disentangle  them  enough  for  a  census.  They  were 
all  light  brown  in  colour;  and  the  aggregation  reminded  me 
of  a  rather  disentangled  bunch  of  angle- worms.  They  lived 
in  a  large  enclosure;  and  emerged  therefrom  only  under 
supervision,  for  they  considered  chickens  and  young  pigs 
their  especial  prey.  The  Captain  looked  upon  them  with 
exasperated  tolerance;  Redmond  with  affection;  the  hostess, 
I  think,  with  a  good  deal  of  the  partisanship  inspired  not  so 
much  by  liking  as  by  the  necessity  of  defending  them 
against  ridicule;  and  the  rest  of  the  world  with  amused  ex- 
pectation as  to  what  they  would  do  next.  The  Captain 

242 


THE    RANCH 

was  continually  uttering  half -serious  threats  as  to  the  differ- 
ent kinds  of  sudden  death  he  was  going  to  inflict  on  the 
whole  useless,  bandylegged,  snipe-nosed,  waggle-eared 

The  best  comment  was  offered  last  year  by  the  chauffeur 
of  the  automobile.  After  gazing  on  the  phenomenon  of  their 
extraordinary  build  for  some  moments  he  remarked  thought- 
fully: 

"Those  dogs  have  a  mighty  long  wheel  base!" 

For  some  reason  unknown  two  of  the  dachshunds  have 
been  elevated  from  the  ranks,  and  have  house  privileges. 
Their  names  are  respectively  Pete  and  Pup.  They  hate 
each  other,  and  have  sensitive  dispositions.  It  took  me 
just  four  years  to  learn  to  tell  them  apart.  I  believe  Pete 
has  a  slightly  projecting  short  rib  on  his  left  side — or  is  it 
Pup?  It  was  fatal  to  mistake. 

"Hullo,  Pup!"  I  would  cry  to  one  jovially. 

"G — r — r — r — !"  would  remark  the  dog,  retiring  under 
the  sofa.  Thus  I  would  know  it  was  Pete.  The  worst  of  it 
was  that  said  Pete's  feelings  were  thereby  lacerated  so 
deeply  that  I  was  not  forgiven  all  the  rest  of  that  day. 

Beyond  the  dogs  lay  a  noble  enclosure  so  large  that  it 
would  have  been  subdivided  into  building  lots  had  it  been 
anywhere  else.  It  was  inhabited  by  all  sorts  of  fowl,  hun- 
dreds of  them,  of  all  varieties.  There  were  chickens, 
turkeys,  geese,  and  a  flock  of  ducks.  The  Captain 
pointed  out  the  Rouen  ducks,  almost  exactly  like  the  wild 
mallards. 

"Those  are  my  live  decoys,"  said  he. 

For  the  accommodation  of  this  multitude  were  cities  of 
nest  houses,  roost  houses,  and  the  like.  Huge  structures 

243 


THE    KILLER 

elevated  on  poles  swarmed  with  doves.  A  duck  pond  even 
had  been  provided  for  its  proper  denizens. 

Thus  we  reached  the  southernmost  outpost  of  our  quad- 
rangle, and  turned  to  the  west,  where  an  ancient  Chinaman 
and  an  assistant  cultivated  minutely  and  painstakingly  a 
beautiful  vegetable  garden.  Tiny  irrigation  streams  ran 
here  and  there,  fitted  with  miniature  water  locks.  Strange 
and  foreign  bamboo  mattings,  withes,  and  poles  performed 
strange  and  foreign  functions.  The  gardener,  brown  and 
old  and  wrinkled,  his  cue  wound  neatly  beneath  his  tremen- 
dous, woven-straw  umbrella  of  a  hat,  possessing  no  English, 
no  emotion,  no  single  ray  of  the  sort  of  intelligence  required 
to  penetrate  into  our  Occidental  world,  bent  over  his  work. 
When  we  passed,  he  did  not  look  up.  He  dwelt  in  a  shed. 
At  least,  such  it  proved  to  be,  when  examined  with  the  cold 
eye  of  analysis.  In  impression  it  was  ancient,  exotic,  Mon- 
golian, the  abode  of  one  of  a  mysterious  and  venerable  race, 
a  bit  of  foreign  country.  By  what  precise  means  this  was 
accomplished  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  It  is  a  fact  well 
known  to  all  CaJifornians  that  a  Chinaman  can  with  no 
more  extensive  properties  than  a  few  pieces  of  red  paper,  a 
partition,  a  dingy  curtain,  and  a  varnished  duck  transform 
utterly  an  American  tenement  into  a  Chinese  pagoda. 

Thence  we  passed  through  a  wicket  and  came  to  the  abode 
of  hogs.  They  dotted  the  landscape  into  the  far  distance, 
rooting  about  to  find  what  they  could;  they  lay  in  wallows; 
they  heaped  themselves  along  fences;  they  snorted  and 
splashed  in  sundry  shallow  pools;  a  good  half  mile  of  mater- 
nal hogs  occupied  a  row  of  kennels  from  which  the  various 
progeny  issued  forth  between  the  bars.  I  cannot  say  I  am 

244 


THE    RANCH 

much  interested  in  hogs,  but  even  I  could  dimly  comprehend 
the  Captain's  attitude  of  swollen  pride.  They  were  clean, 
and  black,  and  more  nearly  approximated  the  absurd  hog 
advertisements  than  I  had  believed  possible.  You  know 
the  kind  I  mean;  an  almost  exact  rectangle  on  four  short 
legs. 

In  the  middle  distance  stood  a  long,  narrow,  thatched  roof 
supported  on  poles.  Beneath  this,  the  Captain  told  me, 
were  the  beehives.  They  proved  later  to  be  in  charge  of  a 
mild-eyed  religious  fanatic  who  believed  the  world  to  be  flat. 

We  took  a  cursory  glance  at  a  barn  filled  to  the  brim  with 
prunes;  and  the  gushing,  beautiful  artesian  well;  at  the  men's 
quarters;  the  blacksmith  shop,  and  all  the  rest.  So  we 
rounded  the  circle  and  came  to  the  most  important  single 
feature  of  the  ranch — the  quarters  for  the  horses. 

A  very  long,  deep  shed,  open  on  all  sides,  contained  a 
double  row  of  mangers  facing  each  other,  and  divided  into 
stalls.  Here  stood  and  were  fed  the  working  horses.  By 
that  I  mean  not  only  the  mule  and  horse  teams,  but  also 
the  utility  driving  teams  and  the  saddle  horses  used  by  the 
cowboys.  Between  each  two  stalls  was  a  heavy  pillar 
supporting  the  roof,  and  well  supplied  with  facilities  for 
hanging  up  the  harness  and  equipments.  As  is  usual  in 
California,  the  sides  and  ends  were  open  to  the  air;  and  the 
floor  was  simply  the  earth  well  bedded. 

But  over  against  this  shed  stood  a  big  barn  of  the  Eastern 
type.  Here  were  the  private  equipments. 

The  Captain  is  a  horseman.  He  breeds  polo  ponies  after 
a  formula  of  his  own ;  and  so  successfully  that  many  of  them 
cross  the  Atlantic.  On  the  ranch  are  always  several  hun- 

245 


THE    KILLER 

dred  head  of  beautiful  animals;  and  of  these  the  best  are 
kept  up  for  the  use  of  the  Captain  and  his  friends.  We 
looked  at  them  in  their  dean,  commodious  stalls;  we  in- 
spected the  harness  and  saddle  room,  glistening  and  satiny 
with  polished  metal  and  well-oiled  leather;  we  examined 
the  half  dozen  or  so  of  vehicles  of  all  descriptions.  The 
hostess  told  with  relish  of  her  one  attempt  to  be  stylish. 

"We  had  such  beautiful  horses,"  said  she,  "that  I  thought 
we  ought  to  have  something  to  go  with  them,  so  I  sent  up 
to  the  city  for  my  brougham.  It  made  a  very  neat  turnout; 
and  Tom  was  as  proud  of  it  as  I  was,  but  when  it  came  to  a 
question  of  proper  garb  for  Tom  I  ran  up  against  a  dead- 
lock. Tom  refused  point  blank  to  wear  a  livery  or  anything 
approaching  a  livery.  He  was  perfectly  respectful  about 
it;  but  he  refused.  Well,  I  drove  around  all  that  winter, 
when  the  weather  was  bad,  in  a  well-appointed  brougham 
drawn  by  a  good  team  in  a  proper  harness;  and  on  the  box 
sat  a  lean-faced  cow  puncher  in  sombrero,  red  handker- 
chief, and  blue  jeans ! " 

Tom  led  forth  the  horses  one  after  the  other — Kingmaker, 
the  Fiddler,  Pittapat,  and  the  others.  We  spent  a  delightful 
two  hours.  The  sun  dropped;  the  shadows  lengthened. 
From  the  fields  the  men  began  to  come  in.  They  drove  the 
wagons  and  hay  ricks  into  the  spacious  enclosure,  and  set 
leisurely  about  the  task  of  caring  for  their  animals.  Chi- 
nese and  Japanese  drifted  from  the  orchards,  and  began  to 
manipulate  the  grindstone  on  their  pruning  knives.  Pres- 
ently a  cowboy  jogged  in,  his  spurs  and  bit  jingling.  From 
the  cook  house  a  bell  began  to  clang. 

We  turned  back  to  the  house.  Before  going  in  I  faced 

246 


THE    RANCH 

the  west.  The  sky  had  turned  a  light  green  full  of  lucence. 
The  minor  sounds  of  the  ranch  near  by  seemed  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  a  sea  of  silence  outside.  Single  sounds  came 
very  clearly  across  it.  And  behind  everything,  after  a  few 
moments,  I  made  out  a  queer,  monotonous  background  of 
half-croaking  calling.  For  some  tune  this  puzzled  me. 
Then  at  last  my  groping  recollection  came  to  my  assistance. 
I  was  hearing  the  calling  of  myriads  of  snow  geese. 


247 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  EARLY  BIRD 

I  was  awakened  rather  early  by  Redmond,  who  silently 
entered  the  room,  lit  a  kerosene  stove,  closed  the  windows, 
and  departed.  As  I  was  now  beneath  two  blankets  and  an 
eiderdown  quilt,  and  my  nose  was  cold,  I  was  duly  grate- 
ful. Mistaking  the  rite  for  a  signal  to  arise,  I  did  so;  and 
shortly  descended.  The  three  fireplaces  were  crackling 
away  merrily,  but  they  had  done  little  to  mitigate  the  at- 
mosphere as  yet.  Maids  were  dusting  and  sweeping. 
The  table  was  not  yet  set.  Inquiry  telling  that  breakfast 
was  more  than  an  hour  later,  I  took  a  gun  from  the  rack, 
pocketed  the  only  five  shells  in  sight,  and  departed  to  see 
what  I  could  see. 

The  outer  world  was  crisp  with  frost.  I  clambered  over 
the  corral  fence,  made  my  way  through  a  hundred  acres  or  so 
of  slumbering  pigs,  and  so  emerged  into  the  open  country. 

In  the  middle  distance  and  perhaps  a  mile  away  was  a 
low  fringe  of  brush;  to  the  left  an  equal  distance  a  group 
of  willows;  and  almost  behind  me  a  clump  of  cotton  woods. 
I  resolved  to  walk  over  to  the  brush,  swing  around  to  the 
willows,  turn  to  the  cottonwoods,  and  so  back  to  the  ranch. 
It  looked  like  about  four  miles  or  so.  Perhaps  with  my 
five  shells  I  might  get  something.  At  any  rate,  I  would  have 
a  good  walk. 


THE    RANCH 

The  mountains  were  turning  from  the  rose  pink  of  early 
morning.  I  could  hear  again  the  bickering  cries  of  the  snow 
geese  and  sandhill  cranes  away  in  an  unknown  distance, 
the  homelier  calls  of  barnyard  fowl  nearer  at  hand.  Cattle 
trotted  before  me  and  to  right  and  left,  their  heads  high, 
their  gait  swinging  with  the  freedom  of  the  half- wild  animals 
of  the  ranges.  After  a  few  steps  they  turned  to  stare  at 
me,  eyes  and  nostrils  wide,  before  making  up  their  minds 
whether  or  not  it  would  be  wise  to  put  a  greater  distance 
between  me  and  them.  The  close  sod  was  green  and  strong. 
It  covered  the  slightly  rounding  irrigation  "checks"  that 
followed  in  many  a  curve  and  double  the  lines  of  contours 
on  the  flat  plain. 

The  fringe  of  brush  did  not  amount  to  anything;  it  was 
merely  a  convenient  turning  mark  for  my  little  walk. 
Arrived  there,  I  executed  a  sharp  "column  left — 

Seven  ducks  leaped  into  the  air  apparently  from  the  bare, 
open,  and  dry  ground ! 

Every  sportsman  knows  the  scattering  effect  on  the  wits 
of  the  absolutely  unexpected  appearance  of  game.  Every 
sportsman  knows  also  the  instinctive  reactions  that  long 
habit  will  bring  about.  Thus,  figuratively,  I  stood  with 
open  mouth,  heart  beating  slightly  faster,  and  mind  making 
to  itself  such  imbecile  remarks  as:  "Well,  what  do  you  think 
of  that!  Who  in  blazes  would  have  expected  ducks  here?" 
and  other  futile  remarks.  In  the  meantime,  the  trained 
part  of  me  had  jerked  the  gun  off  my  shoulder,  pushed 
forward  the  safety  catch,  and  prepared  for  one  hasty  long 
shot  at  the  last  and  slowest  of  the  ducks.  Now  the  in- 
stinctive part  of  one  can  do  the  preparations,  but  the  actual 

249 


THE    KILLER 

shooting  requires  a  more  ordered  frame  of  mind.  By 
this  time  my  wits  had  snapped  back  into  place.  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  the  duck's  outstretched  neck  wilt; 
of  hearing  him  hit  the  ground  with  a  thud  somewhere 
beyond. 

Marking  the  line  of  his  fall,  I  stepped  confidently  for- 
ward, and  without  any  warning  whatever  found  myself 
standing  on  the  bank  of  an  irrigation  ditch.  It  was  rilled 
to  the  brim  with  placid  water  on  which  floated  a  few  downy 
feathers.  On  this  side  was  dry  sod;  and  on  the  other  was 
dry  sod.  Nothing  indicated  the  presence  of  that  straight 
band  of  silvery  water  until  one  stood  fairly  at  its  brink. 
To  the  right  I  could  see  its  sides  narrow  to  the  point  of  a 
remote  perspective.  To  the  left  it  ran  for  a  few  hundred 
yards,  then  apparently  came  to  an  abrupt  stop  where  it 
turned  at  an  angle. 

In  the  meantime,  my  duck  was  on  the  other  side;  I  was 
in  my  citizen's  clothes. 

No  solution  offered  in  sight,  so  I  made  my  way  to  the  left 
where  I  could  look  around  the  bend.  Nearing  the  bend  I 
was  seized  with  a  bright  idea.  I  dropped  back  below  the 
line  of  sight,  sneaked  quietly  to  the  bank,  and,  my  eye 
almost  level  with  the  water,  peered  down  the  new  vista. 
Sure  enough,  not  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away  floated 
another  band  of  ducks. 

I  watched  them  for  a  moment  until  I  was  sure,  by 
various  small  landmarks,  of  their  exact  location.  Then  I 
dropped  back  far  enough  so  that,  even  standing  erect, 
I  would  be  below  the  line  of  vision  of  those  ducks;  strolled 
along  until  opposite  my  landmarks;  then,  bolt  upright, 

250 


THE    RANCH 

walked  directly  forward,  the  gun  at  ready.  When  within 
twenty  yards  the  ducks  arose.  It  was,  of  course,  easy 
shooting.  Both  fell  across  the  ditch.  That  did  not 
worry  me;  if  worst  came  to  worst  I  could  strip  and  wade. 
This  seemed  to  be  an  exceedingly  unique  and  interesting 
way  to  shoot  ducks.  To  be  sure,  I  had  only  two  shells  left; 
but  then,  it  must  be  almost  breakfast  time.  I  repeated  the 
feat  a  half  mile  farther  on,  discovered  a  flood  gate  over 
which  I  could  get  to  the  other  side,  collected  my  five  ducks, 
and  cut  across  country  to  the  ranch.  The  sun  was  just 
getting  in  its  work  on  the  frost.  Long  files  of  wagons  and 
men  could  be  seen  disappearing  in  the  distance.  I  entered 
proudly,  only  ten  minutes  late. 


251 


CHAPTER  V 

QUAIL 

The  family  assembled  took  my  statement  with  extraor- 
dinary calm,  contenting  themselves  with  a  general  inquiry 
as  to  the  species.  I  was  just  a  trifle  crestfallen  at  this  in- 
difference. You  see  at  this  time  I  was  not  accustomed  to 
the  casual  duck.  My  shooting  heretofore  had  been  a  very 
strenuous  matter.  It  had  involved  arising  many  hours 
before  sun-up,  and  venturing  forth  miles  into  wild  marshes; 
and  much  endurance  of  cold  and  discomfort.  To  make  a 
bag  of  any  sort  we  were  in  the  field  before  the  folk  knew  the 
night  had  passed.  Upland  shooting  meant  driving  long 
distances,  and  walking  through  the  heavy  hardwood  swamps 
and  slashes  from  dusk  to  dusk.  Therefore  I  had  con- 
sidered myself  in  great  luck  to  have  blundered  upon  my 
ducks  so  casually;  and,  furthermore,  from  the  family's 
general  air  of  leisure  and  unpreparedness,  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  that  no  field  sport  was  projected  for  that  day. 

Mrs.  Kitty  presided  beside  a  copper  coffee  pot  with  a  bell- 
shaped  glass  top.  As  this  was  also  an  institution,  it  merits 
attention.  A  small  alcohol  lamp  beneath  was  lighted. 
For  a  long  time  nothing  happened.  Then  all  at  once  the 
glass  dome  clouded,  was  filled  with  frantic  brown  and  racing 
bubbling.  Thereupon  the  hostess  turned  over  a  sand  glass. 
When  the  last  grains  had  run  through,  the  alcohol  lamp  was 

252 


THE     RANCH 

turned  off.  Immediately  the  glass  dome  was  empty  again. 
From  a  spigot  one  drew  off  coffee. 

But  if  perchance  the  Captain  and  I  wished  to  get  up 
before  anybody  else  could  be  hired  to  get  up,  the  Dingbat 
could  be  so  loaded  as  to  give  down  an  automatic  breakfast. 
The  evening  before  the  maid  charged  the  affair  as  usual, 
and  at  the  last  popped  four  eggs  into  the  glass  dome. 
After  the  mysterious  alchemical  perturbations  had  ceased, 
we  fished  out  those  eggs  soft  boiled  to  the  second! 
One  day  the  maid  mistook  the  gasoline  bottle  for  the 
alcohol  bottle.  That  is  a  sad  tale  having  to  do  with 
running  flames,  and  burned  table  pieces,  not  to  speak  of  a 
melted-down  connection  or  so  on  the  Dingbat.  We  did  not 
know  what  was  the  matter;  and  our  attitude  was  not  so 
much  that  of  alarm,  as  of  grief  and  indignation  that  our 
good  old  tried  and  trained  Dingbat  should  in  his  old  age  cut 
up  any  such  didoes.  Especially  as  there  were  new  guests 
present. 

After  breakfast  we  wandered  out  on  the  verandah. 
Nobody  seemed  to  be  in  any  hurry  to  start  anything.  The 
hostess  made  remarks  to  Pollymckittrick;  the  General 
read  a  newspaper;  the  Captain  sauntered  about  enjoying  the 
sun.  After  fifteen  minutes,  as  though  the  notion  had  just 
occurred,  somebody  suggested  that  we  go  shooting. 

"How  about  it?"  the  Captain  asked  me. 

"  Surely,"  I  agreed,  and  added  with  some  surprise  out  of 
my  other  experience,  " Isn't  it  a  little  late?" 

But  the  Captain  misunderstood  me. 

"I  don't  mean  blind  shooting,"  said  he,  "just  ram 
around." 

253 


THE    KILLER 

He  seized  a  megaphone  and  bellowed  through  it  at  the 
stables. 

"Better  get  on  your  war  paint,"  he  suggested  to  me. 

I  changed  hastily  into  my  shooting  clothes,  and  re- 
turned to  the  verandah.  After  some  few  moments  the 
Captain  joined  me.  After  some  few  moments  more  a 
tremendous  rattling  came  from  the  stable.  A  fine  bay 
team  swung  into  the  driveway,  rounded  the  circle, 
and  halted.  It  drew  the  source  of  the  tremendous 
rattling. 

Thus  I  became  acquainted  with  the  Liver  Invigorator. 
The  Invigorator  was  a  buckboard  high,  wide,  and  long. 
It  had  one  wide  seat.  Aft  of  that  seat  was  a  cage  with 
bars,  in  which  old  Ben  rode.  Astern  was  a  deep  box 
wherein  one  carried  rubber  boots,  shells,  decoys,  lunch, 
game,  and  the  like.  The  Invigorator  was  very  old,  very 
noisy,  and  very  able.  With  it  we  drove  cheerfully  any- 
where we  pleased — over  plowed  land,  irrigation  checks, 
through  brush  thick  enough  to  lif t  our  wheels  right  off  the 
ground,  and  down  into  and  out  of  water  ditches  so  steep 
that  we  alternately  stood  the  affair  on  its  head  and  its  tail, 
and  so  deep  that  we  had  to  hold  all  our  belongings  in  our 
arms,  while  old  Ben  stuck  his  nose  out  the  top  bars  of  his 
cage  for  a  breath  of  air.  It  could  not  be  tipped  over;  at 
least  we  never  upset  it.  To  offset  these  virtues  it  rattled 
like  a  runaway  milk  wagon;  and  it  certainly  hit  the  high 
spots  and  hit  them  hard.  Nevertheless,  in  a  long  and 
strenuous  sporting  career  the  Invigorator  became  endeared 
through  association  to  many  friends.  When  the  Captain 
proposed  a  new  vehicle  with  easier  springs  and  less  noise,  a 

254 


THE    RANCH 

wail  of  protest  arose  from  many  and  distant  places.  The 
Invigorator  still  fulfills  its  function. 

Now  there  are  three  major  topics  on  the  Ranch:  namely, 
ducks,  quail,  and  ponies.  In  addition  to  these  are  five  of 
minor  interest:  the  mail,  cattle,  jackrabbits,  coons,  and 
wildcats. 

I  was  already  familiar  with  the  valley  quail,  for  I  had 
hunted  him  since  I  was  a  small  boy  with  the  first  sixteen- 
gauge  gun  ever  brought  to  the  coast.  I  knew  him  for  a  very 
speedy  bird,  much  faster  than  our  bob  white,  dwelling  in 
the  rounded  sagebrush  hills,  travelling  in  flocks  of  from 
twenty  to  several  thousand,  exceedingly  given  to  rapid  leg 
work.  We  had  to  climb  hard  after  him,  and  shoot  like 
lightning  from  insecure  footing.  His  idiosyncrasies  were  as 
strongly  impressed  on  me  as  the  fact  that  human  beings 
walk  upright.  Here,  however,  I  had  to  revise  my 
ideas. 

We  drove  down  the  avenue  of  palms,  pursued  by  four  or 
five  yapping  dachshunds,  and  so  out  into  a  long,  narrow  lane 
between  pasture  fences.  Herds  of  ponies,  fuzzy  in  their 
long  winter  coats,  came  gently  to  look  at  us.  The  sun  was 
high  now,  so  the  fur  of  their  backs  lay  flat.  Later,  in  the 
chill  of  evening,  the  hair  would  stand  out  like  the  nap  of 
velvet,  thus  providing  for  additional  warmth  by  the  extra 
air  space  between  the  outside  of  the  coat  and  the  skin.  It 
must  be  very  handy  to  carry  this  invisible  overcoat,  ready 
for  the  moment's  need.  Here,  too,  were  cattle  standing 
about.  On  many  of  them  I  recognized  the  familiar  J-I 
brand  of  many  of  my  Arizona  experiences.  Arizona  bred 
and  raised  them;  California  fattened  them  for  market. 

255 


THE    KILLER 

We  met  a  cowboy  jingling  by  at  his  fox  trot;  then  came  to 
the  country  road. 

Along  this  we  drove  for  some  miles.  The  country  was 
perfectly  flat,  but  variegated  by  patches  of  greasewood, 
of  sagebrush,  of  Egyptian-corn  fields,  and  occasionally  by  a 
long,  narrow  fringe  of  trees.  Here,  too,  were  many  examples 
of  that  phenomenon  so  vigorously  doubted  by  most  Eastern- 
ers: the  long  rows  of  trees  grown  from  original  cottonwood 
or  poplar  fence  posts.  In  the  distance  always  were  the 
mountains.  Overhead  the  sky  was  very  blue.  A  number 
of  buzzards  circled. 

After  a  time  we  turned  off  the  road  and  into  a  country 
covered  over  with  tumbleweed,  a  fine  umber  red  growth  six 
or  eight  inches  high,  and  scattered  sagebrush.  Inlets, 
bays,  and  estuaries  of  bare  ground  ran  everywhere.  The 
Captain  stood  up  to  drive,  watching  for  the  game  to  cross 
these  bare  places. 

I  stood  up,  too.  It  is  no  idle  feat  to  ride  the  Invigorator 
thus  over  hummocky  ground.  It  lurched  and  bumped  and 
dropped  into  and  out  of  trouble;  and  in  correspondence  I 
alternately  rose  up  and  sat  down  again,  hard.  The  Cap- 
tain rode  the  storm  without  difficulty.  He  was  accustomed 
to  the  Invigorator;  and,  too,  he  had  the  reins  to  hang  on  by. 

"  There  they  go ! "  said  he,  suddenly,  bringing  the  team  to  a 
halt. 

I  looked  ahead.  Across  a  ten-foot  barren  ran  the  quail, 
their  crests  cocked  forward,  their  trim  figures  held  close  as  a 
sprinter  goes,  rank  after  rank,  their  heads  high  in  the  alert 
manner  of  quail. 

The  Captain  sat  down,  jerked  off  the  brake,  and  spoke  to 

256 


THE    RANCH 

his  horses.  I  sat  down,  too;  mainly  because  I  had  to.  The 
Invigorator  leaped  from  hump  to  hump.  Before  those  quail 
knew  it  we  were  among  them.  Right,  left,  all  around  us 
they  roared  into  the  air.  Some  doubled  back;  some  buzzed 
low  to  right  or  left;  others  rose  straight  ahead  to  fly  a 
quarter  mile,  and  then,  wings  set,  to  sail  another  quarter 
until  finally  they  pitched  down  into  some  bit  of  inviting 
cover. 

The  Captain  brought  his  horses  to  a  stand  with  great 
satisfaction.  We  congratulated  each  other  gleefully;  and 
even  old  Ben,  somewhat  shaken  up  in  his  cage  astern, 
wagged  his  tail  in  appreciation  of  the  situation. 

For,  you  see,  we  had  scattered  the  covey,  and  now  they 
would  lie.  If  the  band  had  flushed,  flown,  and  lighted  as 
one  body,  immediately  on  hitting  the  ground  they  would 
have  put  their  exceedingly  competent  little  legs  into 
action,  and  would  have  run  so  well  and  so  far  that,  by  the 
time  we  had  arrived  on  the  spot,  they  would  have  been  a 
good  half  mile  away.  But  now  that  the  covey  was  broken, 
the  individuals  and  small  bands  would  stay  put.  If 
they  ran  at  all,  it  would  be  for  but  a  short  distance.  On  this 
preliminary  scattering  depends  the  success  of  a  chase  after 
California  quail.  I  have  seen  six  or  eight  men  empty  both 
barrels  of  their  guns  at  a  range  of  more  than  a  hundred  yards. 
They  were  not  insane  enough  to  think  they  would  get  any- 
thing. Merely  they  hoped  that  the  racket  and  the  drop- 
ping of  the  spent  shot  would  break  the  distant  covey. 

We  hitched  the  horses  to  a  tree,  released  old  Ben,  and 
started  forth. 

For  a  half  hour  we  had  the  most  glorious  sport,  beating 

257 


THE    KILLER 

back  and  forth  over  the  ground  again  and  again.  The  birds 
lay  well  in  the  low  cover,  and  the  shooting  was  clean  and 
open.  I  soon  found  that  the  edges  of  the  bare  ground  were 
the  most  likely  places.  Apparently  the  birds  worked  slowly 
through  the  cover  ahead  of  us,  but  hesitated  to  cross  the 
open  spots,  and  so  bunched  at  the  edge.  By  walking  in  a 
zigzag  along  some  of  these  borders,  we  gathered  in  many 
scattered  birds  and  small  bunches.  Why  the  zigzag? 
Naturally  it  covers  a  trifle  more  ground  than  a  straight 
course,  but  principally  it  seems  to  confuse  the  game.  If  you 
walk  in  a  straight  line,  so  the  quail  can  foretell  your  course, 
it  is  very  apt  either  to  flush  wild  or  to  hide  so  close  that  you 
pass  it  by.  The  zigzag  fools  it. 

Thus,  with  varying  luck,  we  made  a  slow  circle  back  to 
the  wagon.  Here  we  found  Mrs.  Kitty  and  Carrie  and  the 
lunch  awaiting  us  with  the  ponies. 

These  robust  little  animals  were  not  miniature  horses, 
but  genuine  ponies,  with  all  the  deviltry,  endurance,  and 
speed  of  their  kind.  They  were  jet-black,  about  waist 
high,  and  of  great  intelligence.  They  drew  a  neat  little  rig, 
capable  of  accommodating  two,  at  a  persistent  rapid 
patter  that  somehow  got  over  the  road  at  a  great  gait. 
And  they  could  keep  it  up  all  day.  Although  perfectly 
gentle,  they  were  as  alert  as  gamins  for  mischief,  and 
delighted  hugely  in  adding  to  the  general  row  and  con- 
fusion if  anything  happened  to  go  wrong.  Mrs.  Kitty 
drove  them  everywhere.  One  day  she  attempted  to  cross 
an  irrigation  ditch  that  proved  to  be  deeper  than  she  had 
thought  it.  The  ponies  disappeared  utterly,  leaving  Mrs. 
Kitty  very  much  astonished.  Horses  would  have  drowned 

258 


THE    RANCH 

in  like  circumstances,  but  the  ponies,  nothing  daunted, 
dug  in  their  hoofs  and  scrambled  out  like  a  pair  of  dogs, 
incidentally  dipping  their  mistress  on  the  way. 

In  the  shade  of  a  high  greasewood  we  unpacked  the  pony 
carriage.  This  was  before  the  days  of  thermos  bottles, 
so  we  had  a  most  elaborate  wicker  basket  whose  sides  let 
down  to  form  a  wind  shield  protecting  an  alcohol  burner 
and  a  kettle.  When  the  water  boiled,  we  made  hot  tea, 
and  so  came  to  lunch. 

Strangely  enough  this  was  my  first  experience  at  having 
lunch  brought  out  to  the  field.  Ordinarily  we  had  been 
accustomed  to  carry  a  sandwich  or  so  in  the  side  pockets 
of  our  shooting  coats,  which  same  we  ate  at  any  odd 
moment  that  offered.  Now  was  disclosed  an  astonishing 
variety.  There  were  sandwiches,  of  course,  and  a  salad, 
and  the  tea,  but  wonderful  to  contemplate  was  a  deep  dish 
of  potted  quail,  row  after  row  of  them,  with  delicious 
white  sauce.  In  place  of  the  frugal  bite  or  so  that  would 
have  left  us  alert  and  fit  for  an  afternoon's  work,  we  ate 
until  nothing  remained.  Then  we  lit  pipes  and  lay  on  our 
backs,  and  contemplated  a  cloudless  sky.  It  was  the  warm 
time  of  day.  The  horses  snoozed,  a  hind  leg  tucked  up; 
old  Ben  lay  outstretched  in  doggy  content;  Mrs.  Kitty  knit 
or  crocheted  or  something  of  that  sort;  and  Carrie  and  the 
Captain  and  I  took  cat  naps.  At  length,  the  sun's  rays  no 
longer  striking  warm  from  overhead,  the  Captain  aroused 
us  sternly. 

"You're  a  nice,  energetic,  able  lot  of  sportsmen!"  he 
cried  with  indignation.  "Have  I  got  to  wait  until  sunset 
for  you  lazy  chumps  to  get  a  full  night's  rest?  " 

259 


THE    KILLER 

"Don't  mind  him,"  Mrs.  Kitty  told  me,  placidly;  "he 
was  sound  asleep  himself;  and  the  only  reason  he  waked  is 
because  he  snored  and  I  punched  him." 

She  folded  up  her  fancy  work,  shook  out  her  skirts,  and 
turned  to  the  ponies. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon.  We  had  disgracefully 
wasted  our  time,  and  enjoyed  doing  it.  The  Captain 
decided  it  to  be  too  late  to  hunt  up  a  new  covey,  so  we  re- 
versed to  pick  up  some  of  those  that  had  originally  doubled 
back.  We  flushed  forty  or  fifty  of  them  at  the  edge  of  the 
road.  They  scattered  ahead  of  us  in  a  forty-acre  plowed 
field. 

Until  twilight,  then,  we  walked  leisurely  back  and  forth, 
which  is  the  only  way  to  walk  in  a  plowed  field,  after  all. 
The  birds  had  pitched  down  into  the  old  furrows,  and  when- 
ever a  tuft  of  grass,  a  piece  of  tumbleweed,  or  a  shallow 
grassy  ditch  offered  a  handful  of  cover,  there  the  game  was 
to  be  found.  Mrs.  Kitty  followed  at  the  Captain's  elbow, 
and  Carrie  at  mine.  Carrie  made  a  first-rate  dog,  marking 
down  the  birds  unerringly.  The  quail  flew  low  and  hard, 
offering  in  the  gathering  twilight  and  against  the  neutral- 
coloured  earth  marks  worthy  of  good  shooting.  At  last 
we  turned  back  to  our  waiting  team.  The  dusk  was  com- 
ing over  the  land,  and  the  "shadow  of  the  earth"  was 
marking  its  strange  blue  arc  in  the  east.  As  usual  the 
covey  was  now  securely  scattered.  Of  a  thousand  or  so 
birds  we  had  bagged  forty-odd;  and  yet  of  the  remainder 
we  would  have  had  difficulty  in  flushing  another  dozen. 
It  is  the  mystery  of  the  quail,  and  one  that  the  sportsman 
can  never  completely  comprehend.  As  we  clambered  into 

260 


THE    RANCH 

the  Invigorator  we  could  hear  from  all  directions  the  birds 
signalling  each  other*  Near,  far,  to  right,  to  left,  the  call 
sounded,  repeating  over  and  over  again  a  parting,  defiant 
denial  that  the  victory  was  ours. 

"You  can't  shoot  1    You  can't  shoot!    You  can't  shoot!" 
And  nearer  at  hand  the  contented  chirping  twitter  as  the 
covey  found  itself. 


261 


CHAPTER  VI 

PONIES 

Next  morning  the  Captain  decided  that  he  had  various 
affairs  to  attend  to,  so  we  put  on  our  riding  clothes  and  went 
down  to  the  stables. 

The  Captain  had  always  forty  or  fifty  polo  ponies  in  the 
course  of  education,  and  he  was  delighted  to  have  them 
ridden,  once  he  was  convinced  of  your  seat  and  hands. 
They  were  beautiful  ponies,  generally  iron  gray  in  colour, 
very  friendly,  very  eager,  and  very  lively.  Riding  them  was 
like  flying  through  the  air,  for  they  sailed  over  rough  ground, 
irrigation  checks,  and  the  like  without  a  break  in  their  stride, 
and  without  a  jar.  By  the  same  token  it  was  necessary  to 
ride  them.  At  odd  moments  they  were  quite  likely  to  give 
a  wide  sidewise  bound  or  a  stiff-legged  buck  from  sheer  joy 
of  life.  One  got  genuine  "horse  exercise"  out  of  them. 

The  Captain,  as  perhaps  I  have  said,  invented  these 
ponies  himself.  From  Chihuahua  he  brought  in  some  of 
the  best  mustang  mares  he  could  find;  and,  in  case  you  have 
Frederick  Remington's  pictures  of  starved  winter-range 
animals  in  mind,  let  me  tell  you  a  good  mustang  is  a  very 
handsome  animal  indeed.  These  he  bred  to  a  thorough- 
bred. The  resulting  half-breeds  grew  to  the  proper  age. 
Then  he  started  to  have  them  broken  to  the  saddle.  A 
start  was  as  far  as  he  ever  got,  for  nobody  could  ride  them. 

262 


THE    RANCH 

They  combined  the  intelligence  and  vice  of  the  mustang 
with  the  endurance  and  nervous  instability  of  the  thorough- 
bred. The  Captain  tried  all  sorts  of  men,  even  sending  at 
last  to  Arizona  for  a  good  bronco  buster  on  the  J-I.  Only 
one  or  two  of  the  many  could  back  the  animals  at  all, 
though  many  aspirants  made  a  try  at  it.  After  a  long 
series  of  experiments,  the  Captain  came  to  the  reluctant 
conclusion  that  the  cross  was  no  good.  It  seemed  a  pity,  for 
they  were  beautiful  animals,  up  to  full  polo  size,  deep 
chested,  strong  shouldered,  close  coupled,  and  speedy. 

Then,  by  way  of  idleness,  he  bred  some  of  the  half-bred 
mares.  The  three-quarter  cross  proved  to  be  ideal.  They 
were  gentle,  easily  broken,  and  to  the  eye  differed  in  no 
particular  from  their  pure-blooded  brothers.  So,  ever 
since,  the  Captain  has  been  raising  these  most  excellent  polo 
ponies  to  his  great  honour  and  profit  and  the  incidental 
pleasure  of  his  friends  who  like  riding. 

One  of  these  ponies  was  known  as  the  Merry  Jest.  He 
had  a  terrifying  but  harmless  trick.  The  moment  the 
saddle  was  cinched,  down  went  his  head  and  he  began  to 
buck  in  the  most  vicious  style.  This  he  would  keep  up 
until  further  orders.  In  order  to  put  an  end  to  the  per- 
formance all  one  had  to  do  was  to  haul  in  on  the  rope,  thrust 
one's  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  clamber  aboard.  For,  mark 
you  this,  Merry  Jest  in  the  course  of  a  long  and  useful 
life  never  failed  to  buck  under  the  empty  saddle — and  never 
bucked  under  a  rider ! 

This,  of  course,  constituted  the  Merry  Jest.  Its  beauty 
was  that  it  was  so  safe. 

"Want  to  ride?"  asked  the  Captain. 

263 


THE    KILLER 

"Surely,"  replied  the  unsuspecting  stranger. 

The  Merry  Jest  was  saddled,  brought  forth,  and  exhibited 
in  action. 

"There's  your  horse,"  remarked  the  Captain  in  a  matter- 
of-course  tone. 

We  rode  out  the  corral  gate  and  directly  into  the  open 
country.  The  animals  chafed  to  be  away;  and  when  we 
loosened  the  reins,  leaped  forward  in  long  bounds.  Over  the 
rough  country  they  skimned  like  swallows,  their  hoofs  hardly 
seeming  to  touch  the  ground,  the  powerful  muscles  playing 
smoothly  beneath  us  like  engines.  After  a  mile  of  this 
we  pulled  up,  and  set  about  the  serious  business  of  the 
day. 

One  after  another  we  oversaw  all  the  major  activities  of 
such  a  ranch;  outside,  I  mean,  of  the  ranch  enclosure 
proper  where  were  the  fowls,  the  vegetable  gardens,  and  the 
like.  Here  an  immense  hay  rick  was  being  driven  slowly 
along  while  two  men  pitched  off  the  hay  to  right  and  left. 
After  it  followed  a  long  line  of  cattle.  This  manner  of 
feeding  obviated  the  crowding  that  would  have  taken  place 
had  the  hay  not  been  thus  scattered.  The  more  aggressive 
followed  close  after  the  rick,  snatching  mouthf uls  of  the  hay 
as  it  fell.  The  more  peaceful,  or  subdued,  or  philosophical 
strung  out  in  a  long,  thin  line,  eating  steadily  at  one  spot. 
They  got  more  hay  with  less  trouble,  but  the  other  fellows 
had  to  maintain  reputations  for  letting  nobody  get  ahead 
of  them  I 

At  another  p*int  am  exceedingly  rackety  engine  ran  a  hay 
press,  where  the  constituents  of  one  of  the  enormous  house- 
like  haystacks  were  fed  into  a  hopper  and  came  out  neatly 

264 


THE    RANCH 

baled.  A  dozen  or  so  men  oversaw  the  activities  of  this 
noisy  and  dusty  machine. 

Down  by  the  northerly  cottonwoods  two  miles  away  we 
found  other  men  with  scrapers  throwing  up  the  irrigation 
checks  along  the  predetermined  contour  lines.  By  means 
of  these  irregular  meandering  earthworks  the  water, 
admitted  from  the  ditch  to  the  upper  end  of  the  field,  would 
work  its  way  slowly  from  level  to  level  instead  of  running 
off  or  making  channels  for  itself.  This  job,  too,  was  a 
dusty  one.  We  could  see  the  smoke  of  it  rising  from  a  long 
distance;  and  the  horses  and  men  were  brown  with  it. 

And  again  we  rode  softly  for  miles  over  greensward 
through  the  cattle,  at  a  gentle  fox  trot,  so  as  not  to  disturb 
them.  At  several  points  stood  great  blue  herons,  like 
sentinels,  decorative  as  a  Japanese  screen,  absolutely 
motionless.  The  Captain  explained  that  they  were  "fish- 
ing" for  gophers;  and  blessed  them  deeply.  Sometimes  our 
mounts  splashed  for  a  long  distance  through  water  five  or 
six  inches  shallow.  Underneath  the  surface  we  could  see 
the  short  green  grass  of  the  turf  that  thus  received  its  re- 
freshment. Then  somewhere  near,  silhouetted  against  the 
sky  or  distant  mountains,  on  the  slight  elevation  of  the 
irrigation  ditch  bank,  we  were  sure  to  see  some  of  the  ir- 
rigation Chinamen.  They  were  strange,  exotic  figures, 
their  skins  sunburned  and  dark,  their  queues  wound  around 
their  heads;  wearing  always  the  same  uniform  of  blue  jeans 
cut  China-fashion,  rubber  boots,  and  the  wide,  inverted  bowl 
Chinese  sun  hat  of  straw.  By  means  of  shovels  wherewith 
to  dig,  and  iron  bars  wherewith  to  raise  and  lower  flood 
gates,  they  controlled  the  artificial  rainfall  of  the  region. 

265 


THE    KILLER 

So  accustomed  did  the  ducks  become  to  these  amphibious 
people  that  they  hardly  troubled  themselves  to  get  out  of 
the  way,  and  were  utterly  careless  of  how  near  they  flew. 
Uncle  Jim  once  disguised  himself  as  an  irrigation  Chinaman 
and  got  all  kinds  of  shooting — until  the  ducks  found  him  out. 
Now  they  seem  able  to  distinguish  accurately  between  a 
Chinaman  with  a  long  shovel  and  a  white  man  with  a  shot- 
gun, no  matter  how  the  latter  is  dressed.  Ducks,  tame 
and  wild,  have  a  lot  of  sense.  It  must  bore  the  former  to 
be  forced  to  associate  with  chickens. 

Over  in  the  orchard,  of  a  thousand  acres  or  so,  were  many 
more  Orientals,  and  hundreds  of  wild  doves.  These 
Chinese  were  all  of  the  lower  coolie  orders,  and  primitive, 
not  to  say  drastic  in  their  medical  ideas.  One  evening 
the  Captain  heard  a  fine  caterwauling  and  drum  beating 
over  in  the  quarters,  and  sallied  forth  to  investigate.  In 
one  of  the  huts  he  found  four  men  sitting  on  the  outspread 
legs  and  arms  of  a  fifth.  The  latter  had  been  stripped 
stark  naked.  A  sixth  was  engaged  in  placing  live  coals  on 
the  patient's  belly,  while  assorted  assistants  furnished 
appropriate  music  and  lamentation.  The  Captain  put  a 
stop  to  the  proceedings  and  bundled  the  victim  to  a  hospital 
where  he  promptly  died.  It  was  considered  among  Chinese 
circles  that  the  Captain  had  killed  him  by  ill-timed  inter- 
ference ! 

Everywhere  we  went,  and  wherever  a  small  clump  of  trees 
or  even  large  brush  offered  space,  hung  the  carcasses  of 
coyotes,  wildcats,  and  lynx.  Some  were  quite  new,  while 
others  had  completely  mummified  in  the  dry  air  of  these 
interior  plains.  These  were  the  trophies  of  the  professional 

266 


THE    RANCH 

"varmint  killer/'  a  man  hired  by  the  month.  Of  course  it 
would  be  only  too  easy  for  such  an  official  to  loaf  on  his  job, 
so  this  one  had  adopted  the  unique  method  of  proving  his 
activity.  Everywhere  the  Captain  rode  he  could  see  that 
his  man  had  been  busy. 

All  this  time  we  had  been  working  steadily  away  from  the 
ranch.  Long  zigzags  and  side  trips  carried  us  little  for- 
ward, and  a  constant  leftward  tendency  swung  us  always 
around,  until  we  had  completed  a  half  circle  of  which  the 
ranch  itself  was  the  centre.  The  irrigated  fields  had  given 
place  to  open  country  of  a  semi-desert  character  grown  high 
with  patches  of  greasewood,  sagebrush,  thorn-bush;  with 
wide  patches  of  scattered  bunch  grass;  and  stretches  of 
alkali  waste.  Here,  unexpectedly  to  me,  we  stumbled 
on  a  strange  but  necessary  industry  incidental  to  so  large  an 
estate.  Our  nostrils  were  assailed  by  a  mighty  stink. 
We  came  around  the  corner  of  some  high  brush  directly  on  a 
small  two-story  affair  with  a  factory  smokestack.  It  was 
fenced  in,  and  the  fence  was  covered  with  drying  hides. 
I  will  spare  you  details,  but  the  function  of  the  place  was  to 
make  glue,  soap,  and  the  like  of  those  cattle  whose  term  of 
life  was  marked  by  misfortune  rather  than  by  the  butcher's 
knife.  The  sole  workman  at  this  economical  and  useful 
occupation  did  not  seem  to  mind  it.  The  Captain  claimed 
he  was  as  good  as  a  buzzard  at  locating  the  newly  demised. 

Our  ponies  did  not  like  the  place  either.  They  snorted 
violently,  and  pricked  their  ears  back  and  forth,  and  were 
especially  relieved  and  eager  to  obey  when  we  turned  their 
heads  away. 

We  rode  on  out  into  the  desert,  our  ponies  skipping  ex- 

267 


THE    KILLER 

pertly  through  the  low  brush  and  gingerly  over  the  alkali 
crust  of  the  open  spaces  beneath  which  might  be  holes. 
Jackrabbits  by  the  thousand,  literally,  hopped  away  in 
front  of  us,  spreading  in  all  directions  as  along  the  sticks 
of  a  fan.  They  were  not  particularly  afraid,  so  they  loped 
easily  in  high-bounding  leaps,  their  ears  erect.  Many  of 
them  sat  bolt  upright,  looking  at  least  two  feet  high. 
Occasionally  we  managed  really  to  scare  one,  and  then  it  was 
a  grand  sight  to  see  him  open  the  throttle  and  scud  away, 
his  ears  flat  back,  in  the  classical  and  correct  attitude  of  the 
constantly  recurring  phrase  of  the  ancients:  "belly  to  earth 
he  flew!" 

Jackrabbits  are  a  great  nuisance.  The  Captain  had  to 
enclose  his  precious  alfalfa  fields  with  rabbit-proof  wire  to 
prevent  utter  destruction.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  fence, 
naturally,  and  occasionally  the  inquiring  rabbit  would 
find  a  hole  and  crawl  through.  Then  he  was  in  alfalfa, 
which  is,  as  every  Californian  knows,  much  better  than 
being  in  clover.  He  ate  at  first  greedily,  then  more  daintily, 
wandering  always  farther  afield  in  search  of  dessert. 
Never,  however,  did  he  forget  the  precise  location  of 
the  opening  by  which  he  had  entered,  as  was  wise  of  him. 
For  now,  behold,  enter  the  dogs.  Ordinarily  these  dogs, 
who  were  also  wise  beasts,  passed  by  the  jackrabbit  in  his 
abundance  with  only  inhibited  longing.  Their  experience 
had  taught  them  that  to  chase  Jackrabbits  in  the  open  with 
any  motive  ulterior  to  that  of  healthful  exercise  and  the 
joy  of  seeing  the  blame  things  run  was  as  vain  and  as 
puppish  as  chasing  one's  tail.  But  in  the  alfalfa  fields  was 
a  chance,  for  it  must  be  remembered  that  such  fields  were 

268 


THE    RANCH 

surrounded  by  the  rabbit-proof  wire  in  which  but  a  single 
opening  was  known  to  the  jack  in  question.  Therefore, 
with  huge  delight,  the  dogs  gave  chase.  Mr.  Rabbit  bolted 
back  for  his  opening,  his  enemies  fairly  at  his  heels.  Now 
comes  the  curious  part  of  the  episode.  The  dogs  knew 
perfectly  well  that  if  the  rabbit  hit  the  hole  in  the  fence  he 
was  safe  for  all  of  them;  and  they  had  learned,  further,  that 
if  the  rabbit  missed  his  plunge  for  safety  he  would  collide 
strongly  with  that  tight-strung  wire.  When  within  twenty 
feet  or  so  of  the  fence  they  stopped  short  in  expectation. 
Probably  three  times  out  of  five  the  game  made  his  plunge 
in  safety  and  scudded  away  over  the  open  plain  outside. 
Then  the  dogs  turned  and  trotted  philosophically  back 
to  the  ranch.  But  the  other  two  times  the  rabbit  would 
miss.  At  full  speed  he  would  hit  the  tight-strung  mesh, 
only  to  be  hurled  back  by  its  resiliency  fairly  into  the  jaws 
of  his  waiting  pursuers.  Though  thousands  may  consider 
this  another  nature-fake,  I  shall  always  have  the  comfort  of 
thinking  that  the  Captain  and  the  dogs  know  it  for  the 
truth. 

At  times  jackrabbits  get  some  sort  of  a  plague  and  die  in 
great  numbers.  Indeed  some  years  at  the  ranch  they 
seemed  almost  to  have  disappeared.  Their  carcasses  are 
destroyed  almost  immediately  by  the  carrion  creatures,  and 
their  delicate  bones,  scattered  by  the  ravens,  buzzards,  and 
coyotes,  soon  disintegrate  and  pass  into  the  soil.  One 
does  not  find  many  evidences  of  the  destruction  that  has 
been  at  work;  yet  he  will  see  tens  instead  of  myriads.  I 
have  been  at  the  ranch  when  one  was  never  out  of  sight  of 
jackrabbits,  in  droves,  and  again  I  have  been  there  when 

269 


THE    KILLER 

one  would  not  see  a  half  dozen  in  a  morning's  ride.  They 
recover  their  numbers  fast  enough,  and  the  chances  are 
that  this  "narrow-gauge  mule "  will  be  always  with  us.  The 
ranchman  would  like  nothing  better  than  to  bid  him  a  last 
fond  but  genuine  farewell;  but  I  should  certainly  miss  him. 

The  greasewood  and  thorn-bush  grew  in  long,  narrow 
patches.  The  ragweed  grew  everywhere  it  pleased,  af- 
fording grand  cover  for  the  quail.  The  sagebrush  occurred 
singly  at  spaced  intervals,  with  tiny  bare  spaces  between 
across  which  the  plumed  little  rascals  scurried  hurriedly. 
The  tumbleweed  banked  high  wherever,  in  the  mysterious 
dispensations  of  Providence,  a  call  for  tumbleweed  had  made 
itself  heard. 

The  tumbleweed  is  a  curious  vegetable.  It  grows  and 
flourishes  amain,  and  becomes  great  even  as  a  sagebrush, 
and  puts  forth  its  blossoms  and  seeds,  and  finally  turns 
brown  and  brittle.  Just  about  as  you  would  conclude  it 
has  reached  a  respectable  old  age  and  should  settle  down 
by  its  chimney  corner,  it  decides  to  go  travelling.  The 
first  breath  of  wind  that  comes  along  snaps  it  off  close  to  the 
ground.  The  next  turns  it  over.  And  then,  inasmuch 
as  the  tumbleweed  is  roughly  globular  in  shape,  some 
three  or  four  feet  in  diameter,  and  exceedingly  light  in 
structure,  over  and  over  it  rolls  across  the  plain!  If  the 
wind  happens  to  increase,  the  whole  flock  migrates,  bound- 
ing merrily  along  at  a  good  rate  of  speed.  Nothing  more 
terrifying  to  the  unaccustomed  equine  can  be  imagined 
than  thirty  or  forty  of  these  formidable-looking  monsters 
charging  down  upon  him,  bouncing  several  feet  from  the 
surface  of  the  earth.  The  experienced  horse  treats  them 

270 


THE    RANCH 

with  the  contempt  such  light-minded  senility  deserves,  and 
wades  through  their  phantom  attack  indifferent.  After 
the  breeze  has  died  the  debauched  old  tumbleweeds  are 
everywhere  to  be  seen,  piled  up  against  brush,  choking 
the  ditches,  filling  the  roads.  Their  beautiful  spherical 
shapes  have  been  frayed  out  so  that  they  look  sodden  and 
weary  and  done  up.  But  their  seeds  have  been  scattered 
abroad  over  the  land. 

Wherever  we  found  water,  there  we  found  ducks.  The 
irrigating  ditches  contained  many  bands  of  a  dozen  or 
fifteen;  the  overflow  ponds  had  each  its  little  flock.  The 
sky,  too,  was  rarely  empty  of  them;  and  the  cries  of  the 
snow  geese  and  the  calls  of  sandhill  cranes  were  rarely  still. 
I  remarked  on  this  abundance. 

"Ducks!"  replied  the  Captain,  wonderingly.  "Why,  you 
haven't  begun  to  see  ducks!  Come  with  me." 

Thereupon  we  turned  sharp  to  the  left.  After  ten 
minutes  I  made  out  from  a  slight  rise  above  the  plain  a 
black  patch  lying  across  the  distance.  It  seemed  to  cover 
a  hundred  acres  or  so,  and  to  represent  a  sort  of  growth 
we  had  not  before  encountered. 

"That,"  said  the  Captain,  indicating,  "is  a  pond  covered 
with  ducks." 

I  did  not  believe  it.  We  dropped  below  the  line  of  sight 
and  rode  steadily  forward. 

All  at  once  a  mighty  roar  burst  on  our  ears,  like  the  rush 
of  a  heavy  train  over  a  high  trestle;  and  immediately  the  air 
ahead  of  us  was  filled  with  ducks  towering.  They  mounted, 
and  wheeled,  and  circled  back  or  darted  away.  The  sky 
became  fairly  obscured  with  them  in  the  sense  that  it 

271 


THE    KILLER 

seemed  inconceivable  that  hither  space  could  contain  an- 
other bird.  Before  the  retina  of  the  eye  they  swarmed 
exactly  as  a  nearer  cloud  of  mosquitoes  would  appear. 

Hardly  had  the  shock  of  this  first  stupendous  rise  of  wild- 
fowl spent  itself  before  another  and  larger  flight  roared  up. 
It  seemed  that  all  the  ducks  in  the  world  must  be  a- wing; 
and  yet,  even  after  that,  a  third  body  arose,  its  rush  sound- 
ing like  the  abrupt,  overwhelming  noise  of  a  cataract  in  a 
sudden  shift  of  wind.  I  should  be  afraid  to  guess  how  many 
ducks  had  been  on  that  lake.  Its  surface  was  literally 
covered,  so  that  nowhere  did  a  glint  of  water  show.  I 
suppose  it  would  be  a  simple  matter  to  compute  within  a 
few  thousand  how  many  ducks  would  occupy  so  much  space ; 
but  of  what  avail?  Mere  numbers  would  convey  no  im- 
pression of  the  effect.  Rather  fill  the  cup  of  heaven  with 
myriads  thick  as  a  swarm  of  gnats  against  the  sun.  They 
swung  and  circled  back  and  forth  before  making  up  their 
minds  to  be  off,  crossing  and  recrossing  the  various  lines  of 
flight.  The  first  thrice-repeated  roar  of  rising  had  given 
place  to  the  clear,  sustained  whistling  of  wings,  low,  pene- 
trating, inspiring.  In  the  last  flight  had  been  a  band  of 
several  hundred  snow  geese;  and  against  the  whiteness  of 
their  plumage  the  sun  shone. 

"That,"  observed  the  Captain  with  conviction,  "is  what 
you  might  call  ducks." 

By  now  it  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  We  had  not 
thought  of  lunch.  At  the  ranch  lunch  was  either  a  major 
or  a  minor  consideration;  there  was  no  middle  ground.  If 
possible,  we  ate  largely  of  many  most  delicious  things.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  we  happened  to  be  out  somewhere  at 

272 


THE    RANCH 

noon,  we  cheerfully  omitted  lunch.  So,  when  we  returned 
to  the  ranch,  the  Captain,  after  glancing  at  his  watch  and 
remarking  that  it  was  rather  late  to  eat,  proposed  that  we 
try  out  two  other  ponies  with  the  polo  mallets. 

This  we  proceeded  to  do.  After  an  hour's  pleasant 
exercise  on  the  flat  in  the  "Enclosure,"  we  jogged  content- 
edly back  into  the  corral. 

Around  the  corner  of  the  barn  sailed  a  distracted  and 
utterly  stampeded  hen.  After  her,  yapping  eagerly,  came 
five  dachshunds. 

Pause  and  consider  the  various  elements  of  outrage  the 
situation  presented.  (A)  Dachshunds  are,  as  before 
quoted,  a  bunch  of  useless,  bandylegged,  snip-nosed, 

waggle-eared  ,  anyway,  and  represent  an  amiable 

good-natured  weakness  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Kitty.  (B) 
Dachshunds  in  general  are  not  supposed  to  run  wild  all 
over  the  place,  but  to  remain  in  their  perfectly  good, 
sufficiently  large,  entirely  comfortable  corral,  Pete  and  Pup 
excepted.  (C)  Chickens  are  valuable.  (D)  Confound 
'em!  This  sort  of  a  performance  will  be  a  bad  example  for 
Young  Ben.  First  thing  we'll  know,  he'll  be  chasing 
chickens,  too! 

JThe  Captain  dropped  from  his  pony  and  joined  the  pro- 
cession. The  hen  could  run  just  a  trifle  faster  than  the 
dachshunds;  and  the  dachshunds  just  a  trifle  faster  than 
the  Captain.  I  always  claimed  they  circled  the  barn 
three  times,  in  the  order  named.  The  Captain  insists  with 
dignity  that  I  exaggerate  three  hundred  per  cent.  At  any 
rate,  the  hen  finally  blundered,  the  dachshunds  fell  upon 
her — and  the  Captain  swung  his  polo  mallet. 

273 


THE    KILLER 

Five  typical  "sickening  thuds"  were  heard;  five  dachs- 
hunds literally  sailed  through  the  air  to  fall  in  quivering 
heaps.  The  Captain,  his  anger  cooled,  came  back,  shaking 
his  head. 

"I  wouldn't  have  killed  those  dogs  for  anything  in  the 
world!"  he  muttered  half  to  me,  half  to  himself  as  we  took 
the  path  to  the  house.  "I  don't  know  what  Mrs.  Kitty 
will  say  to  this!  I  certainly  am  sorry  about  it!"  and 
so  on,  at  length. 

We  turned  the  corner  of  the  hedge.  There  in  a  row  on  the 
top  step  of  the  verandah  sat  five  dachshunds,  their  mouths 
open  in  a  happy  smile,  six  inches  of  pink  tongue  hanging, 
their  eyes  half  closed  in  good-humoured  appreciation. 

The  Captain  approached  softly  and  looked  them  over 
with  great  care.  He  felt  of  their  ribs.  He  stared  up  at  me 
incredulously. 

"Is  this  the  same  outfit?"  he  whispered. 

"It  is,"  said  I,  "I  know  the  blaze-face  brute." 

"But— but " 

"They  played  'possum  on  you,  Captain." 

The  Captain  arose  and  his  wrath  exploded. 

"You  miserable  hounds!"  he  roared. 

With  a  wise  premonition  they  decamped. 

"I'm  going  to  clean  out  the  whole  bandylegged  tribe!" 
threatened  the  Captain  for  the  fiftieth  time  in  the  month. 
"I  won't  have  them  on  the  ranch!" 

That  was  seven  years  ago.  They  are  still  there — they 
and  numerous  descendants.* 


Ten  years  later  sentence  of  death  was  passed  and  carried  out  after  they  kad  killed  one 
wheelbarrow  load  of  broilers! 

274 


CHAPTER  VH 

DINNER 

We  washed  up  and  came  down  stairs.  All  at  once  it 
proved  to  be  drowsy  time.  The  dark  had  fallen  and  the 
lamps  were  lit.  A  new  fire  crackled  in  the  fireplace,  antici- 
pating the  chill  that  was  already  descending.  Carrie 
played  the  piano  in  the  other  room.  The  General  snorted 
over  something  in  his  city  paper.  Mrs.  Kitty  had  dis- 
appeared on  household  business.  Pete  and  Pup,  having 
been  mistaken  one  for  the  other  by  some  innocent  bystander, 
gloomed  and  glowered  under  chairs. 

Both  the  Captain  and  myself  made  some  sort  of  a  pre- 
tence of  reading  the  papers.  It  was  only  a  pretence.  The 
grateful  warmth,  the  soothing  crackling  of  the  fire,  the  dis- 
tant music — and,  possibly,  our  state  of  starvation — 
lulled  us  to  a  half  doze.  From  this  we  were  aroused  by  an 
announcement  of  dinner. 

We  had  soup  and  various  affairs  of  that  sort;  and  there 
was  brought  on  a  huge  and  baronial  'roast,  from  which  the 
Captain  promptly  proceeded  to  slice  generous  allowances. 
With  it  came  vegetables.  They  were  all  cooked  in  cream; 
not  milk,  but  rich  top  cream  thick  enough  to  cut  with  a 
knife.  I  began  to  see  why  all  the  house  servants  were 
plump.  Also  there  were  jellies,  and  little  fat  hot  rolls, 

275 


THE    KILLER 

and  strange  pickled  products  of  the  soil.  I  was  good  and 
hungry;  and  I  ate  thereof. 

The  plates  were  removed.  I  settled  back  with  a  sigh  of 
repletion 

The  door  opened  to  admit  the  waitress  bearing  a  huge 
platter  on  which  reposed,  side  by  side,  five  ducks.  That 
meant  a  whole  one  apiece !  To  my  feeble  protest  the  family 
turned  indignantly. 

"Of  course  you  must  eat  your  duck!"  Mrs.  Kitty  settled 
the  whole  question  at  last. 

So  I  ate  my  duck.  It  was  a  very  good  duck;  as  indeed  it 
should  have  been,  for  it  was  fattened  on  Egyptian  corn, 
hung  the  exact  number  of  days,  and  cooked  by  Charley. 
It  had  a  little  spout  of  celery  down  which  I  could  pour  the 
abundant  juice  from  its  inside ;  and  it  was  flanked  right  and 
left  respectively  by  a  piece  of  lemon  liberally  sprinkled  with 
red  pepper  and  sundry  crisp  slabs  of  fried  hominy.  Every 
night  of  the  shooting  season  each  member  of  the  household 
had  "his  duck."  Later  I  was  shown  the  screened  room 
wherein  hung  the  game,  each  dated  by  a  little  tag. 

After  I  had  made  way  with  most  of  my  duck,  and  other 
things,  and  had  had  my  coffee,  and  had  lighted  a  cigar,  I 
was  entirely  willing  to  sink  back  to  disgraceful  ease.  But 
the  Captain  suddenly  developed  an  inexcusable  and 
fiendish  energy. 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  he.  "You  come  with  me  and 
Redmond  and  get  out  the  decoys." 

"What  for?"  I  temporized,  feebly. 

"To  keep  the  moths  out  of  them,  of  course,"  replied  the 
Captain  with  fine  sarcasm.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 

276 


THE    RANCH 

you  can  sit  still  and  do  nothing  after  seeing  all  those  ducks 
this  afternoon?  You're  a  fine  sportsman!  Brace  up!" 

"Let  me  finish  this  excellent  cigar,"  I  pleaded.  "You 
gave  it  to  me." 

To  this  he  assented.  Carrie  went  back  to  the  piano. 
The  lights  were  dim.  Mrs.  Kitty  went  on  finishing  her 
crochet  work  or  whatever  it  was.  Nobody  said  anything 
for  a  long  time.  The  Captain  was  busy  in  the  gun  room 
with  one  of  the  ranch  foremen. 

But  this  could  not  last,  and  at  length  I  was  haled  forth  to 
work. 

The  crisp,  sharp  air  beneath  the  frosty  stars,  after  the 
tepid  air  within,  awakened  me  like  the  shock  of  cold  water. 
Redmond  was  awaiting  us  with  a  lantern.  By  the  horse 
block  lay  the  mass  of  something  indeterminate  which  I 
presently  saw  to  be  sacks  full  of  something  knobby. 

"I  have  six  sacks  of  wooden  decoys,"  said  Redmond, 
"with  weights  all  on  them." 

The  Captain  nodded  and  passed  on.  We  made  our  way 
down  past  the  grape  arbour,  opened  the  high  door  leading 
into  chickenville,  and  stopped  at  the  border  of  the  little 
pond.  On  its  surface  floated  a  hundred  or  so  tame  ducks 
of  all  descriptions.  By  means  of  clods  of  earth  we  woke 
them  up.  They  came  ashore  and  waddled  without  ob- 
jection to  a  little  inclosure.  We  followed  them  and  shut  the 
gate. 

'  One  after  another  the  Captain  indicated  those  he  wished 
to  take  with  him  on  the  morrow.  Redmond  caught  them, 
inserted  them  in  gunny  sacks,  two  to  the  sack.  They  made 
no  great  objection  to  being  caught.  One  or  two  youngsters 

277 


THE    KILLER 

flopped  and  flapped  about,  and  had  to  be  chased  into  a 
comer.  In  general,  however,  they  accepted  the  situation 
philosophically,  and  snuggled  down  contentedly  in  their 
sacks. 

"They  are  used  to  it,"  the  Captain  explained.  "Most 
of  these  Rouen  ducks  are  old  hands  at  the  business;  they 
know  what  to  expect." 

He  was  very  particular  as  to  the  colouring  of  the  in- 
dividuals he  selected.  A  single  white  feather  was  sufficient 
to  cause  the  rejection  of  a  female;  and  even  when  the  colour 
scheme  was  otherwise  perfect,  too  light  a  shade  proved 
undesired. 

"I  don't  know  just  why  it  is,"  said  he,  "but  the  wild 
ducks  are  a  lot  more  particular  about  the  live  decoys  than 
about  the  wooden.  A  wooden  decoy  can  be  all  knocked  to 
pieces,  faded  and  generally  disreputable,  but  it  does  well 
enough;  but  a  live  decoy  must  look  the  part  absolutely. 
That  gives  us  six  apiece;  I  think  it  will  be  enough." 

Redmond  took  charge  of  our  capture.  We  left  him  with 
the  lantern,  stowing  away  the  decoys,  live  and  inanimate,  in 
the  Invigorator.  Within  fifteen  minutes  thereafter  I  was 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  moderately  tired  and  the  fully  fed. 


278 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DUCKS 

The  Captain  rapped  on  my  door.  It  was  pitch  dark,  and 
the  wind,  which  had  arisen  during  the  night,  was  sweeping 
through  the  open  windows,  blowing  the  light  curtains  about. 
Also  it  was  very  cold. 

"  All  right,"  I  answered,  took  my  resolution  in  my  hands, 
and  stepped  forth. 

Ten  minutes  later,  by  the  light  of  a  single  candle,  we 
were  manipulating  the  coffee-and-egg  machine,  and  devour- 
ing the  tall  pile  of  bread-and-butter  sandwiches  that  had 
been  left  for  us  over  night.  Then,  stepping  as  softly  as  we 
could  in  our  clumping  rubber  boots,  our  arms  burdened 
with  guns  and  wraps,  we  stole  into  the  outer  darkness. 

It  was  almost  black,  but  we  could  dimly  make  out  the 
treetops  whipped  about  by  the  wind.  Over  by  the  stable 
we  caught  the  intermittent  flashes  of  many  lanterns 
where  the  teamsters  were  feeding  their  stock.  Presently  a 
merry  and  vigorous  rattle — rattle — rattle  arose  and  came 
nearer.  The  Invigorator  was  ready  and  under  way. 

We  put  on  all  the  coats  and  sweaters,  and  climbed  aboard. 
The  Captain  spoke  to  his  horses,  and  we  were  off. 

That  morning  I  had  my  first  experience  of  a  phenomenon 
I  have  never  ceased  admiring — and  wondering  at.  I 
refer  to  the  Captain's  driving  in  the  dark. 

279 


THE    KILLER 

The  night  was  absolutely  black,  so  that  I  could  hardly 
make  out  the  horses.  In  all  the  world  were  only  two 
elements,  the  sky  full  of  stars  and  the  mass  of  the  earth. 
The  value  of  this  latter,  as  a  means  of  showing  us  where  we 
were,  was  nullified  by  the  fact  that  the  skyline  consisted, 
not  of  recognizable  and  serviceable  landmarks,  but  of  the 
distant  mountains.  We  went  a  certain  length  of  time, 
and  bumped  over  a  certain  number  of  things.  Then  the 
Captain  pulled  his  team  sharp  around  to  the  left.  Why 
he  did  so  I  could  not  tell  you.  We  drove  an  hour  over  a 
meandering  course. 

"Hang  tight,"  remarked  the  Captain. 

I  did  so.  The  front  end  of  the  Invigorator  immediately 
fell  away  from  under  me,  so  that  if  I  had  not  been  obeying 
orders  by  hanging  tight  I  should  most  certainly  have 
plunged  forward  against  the  horses.  We  seemed  to  slide 
and  slither  down  a  steep  declivity,  then  hit  water  with  a 
splash,  and  began  to  flounder  forward.  The  water 
rose  high  enough  to  cover  the  floor  of  the  Invigorator, 
causing  the  Captain  to  speculate  on  whether  Redmond 
had  packed  in  the  shells  properly.  Then  the  bow  rose 
with  a  mighty  jerk  and  we  scrambled  out  the  other 
side. 

"That's  the  upper  ford  on  the  Slough,"  observed  the 
Captain,  calmly. 

Everywhere  else  along  the  Slough,  as  I  subsequently 
discovered,  the  banks  fell  off  perpendicular,  the  water  was 
deep,  and  the  bottom  soft.  The  approach  was  down  no 
fenced  lane,  but  across  the  open,  with  no  other  landmarks 
even  in  daylight  than  the  break  of  low  willows  and  cotton- 

280 


THE    RANCH 

woods  exactly  like  a  hundred  others.  Ten  minutes  later  the 
Captain  drew  rein. 

"Here  you  are,"  said  he,  cautiously.  "You  can  dump 
your  stuff  off  right  here.  I  can't  get  through  the  fence 
with  the  team;  but  it's  only  a  short  distance  to  carry." 

Accordingly,  in  entire  faith,  I  descended  and  unloaded 
my  three  sacks  of  wooden  decoys  and  my  three  sacks  of 
live  ducks  and  my  gun  and  shells. 

"  I'll  drive  on  to  another  hole,"  said  the  Captain.  "  Good 
luck!" 

"Would  you  mind,"  I  suggested,  meekly,  "telling  me 
in  which  direction  this  mythical  fence  is  situated;  what  kind 
of  a  fence  it  is;  and  where  I  carry  to  when  I  get  through 
it?" 

The  Captain  chuckled. 

"Why,"  he  explained,  "the  fence  is  straight  ahead  of 
you;  and  it's  barbed  wire;  and  as  for  where  you're  headed, 
you'll  find  the  pond  where  we  saw  ah1  those  ducks  last  night 
about  a  hundred  yards  or  so  west." 

Where  we  saw  all  those  ducks!  My  blood  increased 
its  pace  through  my  veins.  Now  that  I  was  afoot,  I  could 
begin  to  make  out  things  in  the  starlight — the  silhouettes 
of  bushes  or  brush,  and  even  three  or  four  posts  of  the 
fence. 

The  Invigorator  rattled  into  the  distance.  I  got  my 
stuff  the  other  side  of  the  wires,  and,  shouldering  a  sack, 
plodded  away  due  west. 

But  now  I  made  out  the  pond  gleaming;  and  by  this 
and  by  the  dun  grayness  of  the  earth  immediately  about  me 
knew  that  dawn  was  at  last  under  way.  The  night  had  not 

281 


THE    KILLER 

yet  begun  to  withdraw,  but  its  first  strength  was  going. 
Objects  in  the  world  about  became,  not  visible,  but  existent. 
By  the  time  I  had  carried  my  last  load  the  rather  liberal 
hundred  yards  to  the  shores  of  the  pond  the  eastern  sky  had 
banished  its  stars. 

My  movements  had,  of  course,  alarmed  the  ducks. 
There  were  not  many  of  them,  as  I  could  judge  by  the 
whistling  of  their  departing  wings  and  by  the  silvery 
furrows  where  they  had  left  the  water.  It  is  curious  how 
strong  the  daylight  must  become  before  the  eye  can  dis- 
tinguish a  duck  in  flight.  The  comparative  paucity  of 
numbers,  I  reflected,  was  probably  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
ducks  used  this  pond  merely  as  a  loafing  place  during 
the  day.  Therefore  I  should  anticipate  a  good  flight  as  soon 
as  feeding  time  should  be  over;  especially  as  one  end  of  the 
pond  proved  to  be  fairly  well  sheltered  from  the  high  wind. 

At  once  I  set  to  work  to  build  me  a  blind.  This  I 
constructed  of  tumbleweed  and  willow  shoots,  with  a  lucky 
sagebrush  as  a  good  basis.  I  made  it  thick  below  and  thin 
on  top,  so  I  could  crouch  hidden,  and  rise  easily  to  shoot. 
Also  I  made  it  hastily,  working  away  with  a  concentration 
that  would  prove  very  valuable  could  it  be  brought  to  a 
useful  line  of  work.  There  can  nothing  equal  the  bifsy- 
ness  of  a  man  hastening  to  perfect  his  arrangements  before 
a  flight  of  ducks  is  due  to  start.  Every  few  moments  I  would 
look  anxiously  up  to  see  how  things  were  going  with  the 
morning.  The  light  was  indubitably  increasing.  That  is 
to  say,  I  could  make  out  the  whole  width  of  the  pond,  for 
example,  although  the  farther  banks  were  still  in  silhouette, 
and  the  sky  was  almost  free  of  stars.  Also  the  perpendicu- 

282 


THE    RANCH 

lar  plane  of  the  mountains  to  the  west,  in  some  subtle 
manner,  was  beginning  to  break.  It  was  not  yet  daylight; 
but  the  dawn  was  here. 

I  reached  cautiously  into  one  of  the  sacks  and  brought 
forth  one  of  the  decoy  ducks.  Around  his  neck  I  buckled 
a  little  leather  collar  to  a  ring  in  which  had  been  attached 
a  cord  and  weight.  Then  I  cautiously  waded  out  and 
anchored  him. 

He  was  delighted,  and  proceeded  immediately  to  take 
a  bath,  ducking  his  head  under  and  out  again,  ruffling  his 
wings,  and  wagging  his  absurd  little  tail.  Apparently  the 
whole  experience  was  a  matter  of  course  to  him;  but  he  was 
willing  to  show  pleasure  that  this  phase  of  it  was  over.  I 
anchored  out  his  five  companions,  and  then  proceeded  to  ar- 
range the  wooden  decoys  artistically  around  the  outskirts. 
By  now  it  was  quite  genuinely  early  daylight.  Three  tunes 
the  overhead  whistle  of  wings  had  warned  me  to  hurry;  and 
twice  small  flocks  of  ducks  had  actually  swung  down  within 
range  only  to  discover  me  at  the  last  moment  and  tower 
away  again.  When  younger,  I  used,  at  such  junctures, 
to  rush  for  my  gun.  That  is  a  puppy  stage,  for  by 
the  time  you  get  your  gun  those  ducks  are  gone;  and 
by  the  time  you  have  regained  your  abandoned  task  more 
ducks  are  in.  Therefore  one  early  learns  that  when  he  goes 
out  from  his  blind  to  pick  up  ducks,  or  catch  cripples, 
or  arrange  decoys,  he  would  better  do  so,  paying  no  atten- 
tion whatever  to  the  game  that  will  immediately  appear. 
So  now  the  whistle  of  wings  merely  caused  me  to  work  the 
faster.  At  length  I  was  able  to  wade  ashore  and  sink  into 
my  blind. 

283 


THE    KILLER 

Immediately,  as  usual,  the  flights  ceased  for  the  time 
being.  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  sit  tight  and  wait. 

This  was  no  unpleasant  task.  The  mountains  to  the 
west  had  become  lucent,  and  glowed  pink  in  the  dawn;  those 
to  the  east  looked  like  silhouettes  of  very  thin  slate- 
coloured  cardboard  stuck  up  on  edge,  across  which  a  pearl 
wash  had  been  laid.  The  flatter  world  of  the  plains  all 
about  me  lay  half  revealed  in  an  unearthly  gray  light.  The 
wind  swooped  and  tore  away  at  the  brush,  sending  its  fan- 
shaped  cat's-paws  across  the  surface  of  the  pond.  My 
ducks,  having  finished  their  ablutions,  now  gave  a  leisurely 
attention  to  smoothing  out  their  plumes  ruffled  by  the 
night  in  the  gunnysack.  They  ran  each  feather  separately 
through  then*  bills,  preening  and  smoothing.  All  the  time 
they  conversed  together  in  low  tones  of  voice.  Whenever 
one  made  a  rather  clever  remark,  or  smoothed  to  glossiness  a 
particularly  rumpled  feather,  he  wagged  his  short  tail  vig- 
orously from  side  to  side  in  satisfaction. 

Suddenly  the  one  farthest  out  in  the  pond  stilled  to  at- 
tention and  craned  forward  his  neck. 

"Mark!"  quoth  he,  loudly,  and  then  again:  "Mark! 
quok — quok — quok  !" 

The  other  five  looked  in  the  same  direction,  and  then 
they,  too,  lifted  up  their  voices.  Cautiously  I  turned  my 
?head.  Low  against  the  growing  splendour  of  the  sunrise, 
wings  rigidly  set,  came  a  flock  of  mallards.  My  ducks 
fairly  stood  up  on  their  tails  the  better  to  hurl  invitations 
and  inducements  at  their  wild  brethren.  The  chorus 
praising  this  particular  spot  was  vociferous  and  unanimous. 
I  wonder  what  the  mallards  thought  of  the  other  fifty  or 

284 


THE    RANCH 

sixty  in  my  flock,  the  wooden  ones,  that  sat  placidly  aloof. 
Did  they  consider  these  remarkably  exclusive;  or  did  they 
perhaps  look  upon  the  live  ones  as  the  "boosters"  com- 
mittee for  this  particular  piece  of  duck  real  estate?  At 
any  rate,  they  dropped  in  without  the  slightest  hesitation, 
which  shows  the  value  of  live  decoys.  The  mallard  is 
ordinarily  a  wily  bird  and  circles  your  pond  a  number  of 
times  before  deciding  to  come  in  to  wooden  decoys.  At  the 
proper  moment  I  got  to  my  feet,  and.  by  good  fortune, 
knocked  down  two  fat  green-heads. 

They  fell  with  a  splash  right  among  my  ducks.  Did 
the  latter  exhibit  alarm  over  either  the  double  concussion 
of  the  gun  or  this  fall  of  defunct  game  from  above?  Not  at 
all!  they  were  tickled  to  death.  Each  swam  vigorously 
around  and  around  at  the  limit  of  his  tether,  ruffling  his 
plumage  and  waggling  his  tail  with  the  utmost  vigour. 

"Well,  I  rather  think  we  fooled  that  bunch!"  said  they, 
one  to  another.  "Did  you  ever  see  an  easier  lot?  Came 
right  down  without  a  look!  If  the  Captain  had  been 
here  he'd  have  killed  a  half  dozen  of  the  chumps  before  they 
got  out  of  range!"  and  so  on.  For  your  experienced  decoy 
always  seems  to  enjoy  the  game  hugely,  and  to  enter  into  it 
with  much  enthusiasm  and  intelligence.  And  all  the  while 
the  flock  of  wooden  decoys  headed  unanimously  up  wind, 
and  bobbed  in  the  wavelets;  and  the  sun  went  on  gilding  the 
mountains  to  the  west. 

Next  a  flock  of  teal  whirled  down  wind,  stooped,  and 
were  gone  like  a  flash.  I  got  in  both  barrels;  and  missed 
both.  The  dissatisfaction  of  this  was  almost  immediately 
mitigated  by  a  fine  smash  at  a  flock  of  sprig  that  went  by 

285 


THE    KILLER 

overhead  at  extreme  long  range,  but  from  which  I  managed 
to  bring  down  a  fine  drake.  When  the  shot  hit  him  he 
faltered,  then,  still  flying,  left  the  ranks  at  an  acute  angle, 
sloping  ever  the  quicker  downward,  until  he  fell  on  a  long 
slant,  his  wings  set,  his  neck  still  outstretched.  I  marked 
the  direction  as  well  as  I  could,  and  immediately  went  in 
search  of  him.  Fortunately  he  lay  in  the  open,  quite  dead. 
Looking  back,  I  could  see  another  good  flock  fairly  hovering 
over  the  decoys. 

The  sun  came  up,  and  grew  warm.  The  wind  died.  I 
took  off  my  sweater.  Between  flights  I  basked  deliciously. 
The  affair  was  outside  of  all  precedent  and  reason.  A  duck 
shooter  ought  to  be  out  in  a  storm,  a  good  cold  storm.  He 
ought  to  break  the  scum  ice  when  he  puts  out  his  decoys. 
He  ought  to  sit  half  frozen  in  a  wintry  blast,  his 
fingers  numb,  his  nose  blue,  his  body  shivering.  That 
sort  of  discomfort  goes  with  duck  shooting.  Yet  here  I  was 
sitting  out  in  a  warm,  summerlike  day  in  my  shirt  sleeves, 
waiting  comfortably — and  the  ducks  were  coming  in, 
too! 

After  a  time  I  heard  the  mighty  rattle  of  the  Invigorator, 
and  the  Captain's  voice  shouting.  Reluctantly  I  disen- 
tangled myself  from  my  blind  and  went  over  to  see  what 
all  the  row  was  about. 

"Had  enough?'7  he  demanded,  cheerily. 

I  saw  that  I  was  supposed  to  say  yes;  so  I  said  it.  The 
ducks  were  still  coming  in  fast.  You  see,  I  was  not  yet 
free  from  the  traditions  to  which  I  had  been  brought  up. 
Back  in  Michigan,  when  a  man  went  for  a  day's  shoot,  he 
stayed  with  it  all  day.  It  was  serious  business.  I  was  not 

286 


THE    RANCH 

yet  accustomed  to  being  so  close  to  the  game  that  the 
casual  expedition  was  after  all  the  most  fun. 

So  I  pulled  up  my  rubber  boots,  and  waded  out,  gathering 
in  the  game.  To  my  immense  surprise  I  found  that  I  had 
thirty-seven  ducks  down.  It  had  not  occurred  to  me  that 
I  had  shot  half  that  number,  which  is  perhaps  commentary 
on  how  fast  ducks  had  been  coming  in.  It  was  then  only 
about  eight  o'clock.  After  gathering  them  in,  next  we 
performed  the  slow  and  very  moist  task  of  lifting  the  wooden 
decoys  and  winding  their  anchor  cords  around  their  placid 
necks.  Lastly  we  gathered  in  the  live  ducks.  They  came, 
towed  at  the  end  of  their  tethers,  with  manifest  reluctance; 
hanging  back  at  their  strings,  flapping  their  wings,  and  hiss- 
ing at  us  indignantly.  I  do  not  think  they  were  frightened, 
for  once  we  had  our  hands  on  them,  they  resumed  their 
dignified  calm.  Only  they  enjoyed  the  fun  outside;  and 
they  did  not  fancy  the  bags  inside;  a  choice  eminently 
creditable  to  their  sense. 

So  back  we  drove  to  the  ranch.  The  Captain,  too, 
had  had  good  shooting.  Redmond  appeared  with  an 
immense  open  hamper  into  which  he  dumped  the  birds 
two  by  two,  keeping  tally  in  a  loud  voice.  Redmond 
thoroughly  enjoyed  all  the  small  details. 


287 


CHAPTER  IX 

UNCLE  JIM 

Each  morning,  while  we  still  sat  at  breakfast,  Uncle  Jim 
drove  up  from  the  General's  in  his  two-wheeled  cart  to  see 
if  there  might  be  anything  doing.  Uncle  Jim  was  a  solidly 
built  elderly  man,  with  the  brown  complexion  and  the 
quizzical,  good-humoured  eye  of  the  habitual  sportsman. 
He  wore  invariably  an  old  shooting  coat  and  a  cap  that  had 
seen  younger,  but  perhaps  not  better,  days.  His  vehicle  was 
a  battered  but  serviceable  two-wheeled  cart  drawn  by  a 
placid  though  adequate  horse.  His  weapon  for  all  purposes 
was  a  rather  ponderous  twelve-gauge. 

If  we  projected  some  sporting  expedition  Uncle  Jim 
was  our  man;  but  if  there  proved  to  be  nothing  in  the  wind, 
he  disappeared  promptly.  He  conducted  various  trapping 
ventures  for  "varmints,"  at  which  he  seemed  to  have 
moderate  success,  for  he  often  brought  in  a  wildcat  or 
coyote.  In  fact,  he  maintained  one  of  the  former  in  a  cage, 
to  what  end  nobody  knew,  for  it  was  a  harsh  and  un- 
sociable character.  Uncle  Jim  began  to  show  signs  of  life 
about  July  fifteenth  when  the  dove  season  opened;  he  came 
into  his  own  from  the  middle  of  October  until  the  first  of 
February,  during  which  period  one  can  shoot  both  ducks 
and  quail;  he  died  down  to  the  bare  earth  when  the  game 
season  was  over,  and  only  sent  up  a  few  green  shoots  of 

288 


THE    RANCH 

interest  in  the  matter  of  supplying  his  wildcat  with  that 
innumerable  agricultural  pest,  the  blackbird. 

Sometimes  I  accompanied  Uncle  Jim,  occupying  the 
other  side  of  the  two-wheeled  cart.  We  never  had  any 
definite  object  in  view;  we  just  went  forth  for  adventure. 
The  old  horse  jogged  along  very  steadily,  considering  the 
fact  that  he  was  as  likely  to  be  put  at  cross  country  as  a  road. 
We  humped  up  side  by  side  in  sociable  silence,  spying  keenly 
for  what  we  could  see.  A  covey  of  quail  disappearing  in 
the  brush  caused  us  to  pull  up.  We  hunted  them  leisurely 
for  a  half  hour  and  gathered  in  a  dozen  birds.  Always  we 
tried  to  sneak  ducks,  no  matter  how  hopeless  the  situation 
might  seem.  Once  I  went  on  one  hand  and  my  knees 
through  three  inches  of  water  for  three  hundred  yards, 
stalking  a  flock  of  sprig  loafing  in  an  irrigation  puddle. 
There  was  absolutely  no  cover;  I  was  in  plain  sight;  from  a 
serious  hunting  standpoint  the  affair  was  quixotic,  not  to 
say  imbecile.  If  I  had  been  out  with  the  Captain  we  should 
probably  not  have  looked  twice  at  those  sprig.  Neverthe- 
less, as  the  general  atmosphere  of  Uncle  Jim's  expeditions 
was  always  one  of  adventure  and  forlorn  hopes  and  try-it- 
anyway,  I  tried  it  on.  Uncle  Jim  sat  in  the  cart  and 
chuckled.  Every  moment  I  expected  the  flock  to  take 
wing,  but  they  lingered.  Finally,  when  still  sixty  yards 
distant,  the  leaders  rose.  I  cut  loose  with  both  barrels  for 
general  results.  To  my  vast  surprise  three  came  down,  one 
dead,  the  other  two  wing-tipped.  The  two  latter  led  me  a 
merry  chase,  wherein  I  managed  to  splatter  the  rest  of 
myself.  Then  I  returned  in  triumph  to  the  cart.  The 
forlorn  hope  had  planted  its  banner  on  the  walls  of  achieve- 

289 


THE    KILLER 

ment.  Uncle  Jim  laughed  at  me  for  my  idiocy  in  crawling 
through  water  after  such  a  fool  chance.  I  laughed  at 
Uncle  Jim  because  I  had  three  ducks.  We  drove  on,  and 
the  warm  sun  dried  me  off. 

In  this  manner  we  made  some  astonishing  bags;  astonish- 
ing not  by  their  size,  but  by  the  manner  of  their  accomplish- 
ment. 

We  were  entirely  open  minded.  Anything  that  came 
along  interested  us.  We  investigated  all  the  holes  in  all 
the  trees,  in  hopes  of  'coons  or  honey  or  something  or 
other.  We  drove  gloriously  through  every  patch  of  brush. 
Sometimes  an  unseen  hummock  would  all  but  upset  us;  so 
we  had  to  scramble  hastily  to  windward  to  restore  our 
equilibrium. 

The  country  was  gridironed  with  irrigation  ditches. 
They  were  eight  to  ten  feet  deep,  twenty  or  thirty  feet  wide, 
and  with  elevated,  precipitous  banks.  One  could  cross 
them  almost  anywhere — except  when  they  were  brimful,  of 
course.  The  banks  were  so  steep  that,  once  started,  the 
vehicle  had  to  go,  but  so  short  that  it  must  soon  reach  bot- 
tom. On  the  other  side  the  horse  could  attain  the  top  by  a 
rush;  after  which,  having  gained  at  least  a  front  footing  over 
the  bank,  he  could  draw  the  light  vehicle  by  dead  weight  the 
rest  of  the  distance.  Naturally,  the  driver  had  to  take  the 
course  at  exactly  right  angles,  or  he  capsized  ingloriously. 

One  day  Uncle  Jim  and  I  started  to  cross  one  of  these 
ditches  that  had  long  been  permitted  to  remain  dry.  Its 
bottom  was  covered  by  weeds  six  inches  high,  and  looked 
to  be  about  six  feet  down.  We  committed  ourselves  to  the 
slope.  Then,  when  too  late  to  reconsider,  we  discovered 

290 


THE     RANCH 

that  the  apparent  six-inch  growth  of  weeds  was  in  reality 
one  of  four  or  five  feet.  The  horse  discovered  it  at  the 
same  time.  With  true  presence  of  mind,  he  immediately  de- 
termined that  it  was  up  to  him  to  leap  that  ditch.  Only  the 
fact  that  he  was  hitched  to  the  cart  prevented  him  from  do- 
ing so;  but  he  made  a  praiseworthy  effort. 

The  jerk  threw  me  backward,  and  had  I  not  grabbed 
Uncle  Jim  I  would  most  certainly  have  fallen  out  behind. 
As  for  Uncle  Jim,  he  would  most  certainly  have  fallen  out 
behind,  too,  if  he  had  not  clung  like  grim  death  to  the 
reins.  And  as  for  the  horse,  alarmed  by  the  check  and 
consequent  scramble,  he  just  plain  bolted,  fortunately 
straight  ahead.  We  hit  the  opposite  bank  with  a  crash, 
sailed  over  it,  and  headed  across  country. 

Consider  us  as  we  went.  Feet  in  air,  I  was  poised  on  the 
end  of  my  backbone  in  a  state  of  exact  equilibrium.  A 
touch  would  tumble  me  out  behind;  an  extra  ounce  would  tip 
me  safely  into  the  cart;  my  only  salvation  was  my  hold  on 
Uncle  Jim.  I  could  not  apply  that  extra  ounce  for  the 
simple  reason  that  Uncle  Jim  also,  feet  in  air,  was  poised 
exactly  on  the  end  of  his  backbone.  If  the  reins  slackened 
an  inch,  over  he  went;  if  he  could  manage  to  pull  up  the 
least  bit  in  the  world,  in  he  came!  So  we  tore  across 
country  for  several  hundred  yards,  unable  to  recover  and 
most  decidedly  unwilling  to  fall  off  on  the  back  of  our  heads. 
It  must  have  been  a  grand  sight;  and  it  seemed  to  endure  an 
hour.  Finally,  imperceptibly  we  overcame  the  opposing 
forces.  We  were  saved! 

Uncle  Jim  cursed  out  " Henry"  with  great  vigour. 
Henry  was  the  mare  we  drove.  Uncle  Jim,  in  his  naming  of 

291 


THE    KILLER 

animals,  always  showed  a  stern  disregard  for  the  female  sex. 
Then,  as  usual,  we  looked  about  to  see  what  we  could  see. 

Over  to  the  left  grew  a  small  white  oak.  About  ten 
or  twelve  feet  from  the  ground  was  a  hole.  That  was 
enough;  we  drove  over  to  investigate  that  hole.  It  was  not 
an  easy  matter,  for  we  were  too  lazy  to  climb  the  tree  unless 
we  had  to.  Finally  we  drove  close  enough  so  that,  by 
standing  on  extreme  tip-toe  atop  the  seat  of  the  cart,  I 
could  get  a  sort  of  sidewise,  one-eyed  squint  at  that  hole. 

"K,"  I  warned  Uncle  Jim,  "Henry  leaves  me  suspended 
in  mid-air  I'll  bash  her  fool  head  in!" 

"No,  you  won't,"  chuckled  Uncle  Jim,  "it's  too  far 
home." 

It  was  a  very  dark  hole,  and  for  a  moment  I  could  see 
nothing.  Then,  all  at  once,  I  made  out  two  dull  balls  of 
fire  glowing  steadily  out  of  the  blackness.  That  was  as  long 
as  I  could  stand  stretching  out  my  entire  anatomy  to  look 
down  any  hole. 

On  hearing  my  report,  Uncle  Jim  phlegmatically  thrust 
the  flexible  whip  down  the  hole. 

"  'Coon,"  he  pronounced,  after  listening  to  the  resultant 
remarks  from  within. 

And  then  the  same  bright  idea  struck  us  both. 

"Mrs.  Kitty  here  makes  good  with  those  angleworms,* 
Uncle  Jim  voiced  the  inspiration. 

We  blocked  up  the  hole  securely;  and  made  rapid  time 
back  to  the  ranch. 


292 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  MEDIUM-SIZE  GAME 

Against  many  attacks  and  accusations  of  uselessness 
cast  at  her  dachshunds,  Mrs.  Kitty  had  always  stoutly 
opposed  the  legend  of  "medium-size  game."  The  dachs- 
hunds may  look  like  bologna  sausages  on  legs,  ran  the  gist 
of  her  argument;  and  they  may  progress  like  rather  lively 
measuring  worms;  and  the  usefulness  of  their  structure  may 
seem  to  limit  itself  to  a  facility  for  getting  under  furniture 
without  stooping,  but — Mrs.  Kitty's  eloquence  always 
ended  by  convincing  herself,  and  she  became  very  serious 
— but  that  is  not  the  dogs'  fault.  Rather  it  is  the  fault  of 
their  environment  to  which  they  have  been  transplanted. 
Back  in  their  own  native  vaterland  they  were  always  used 
for  medium-sized  game.  And  what  is  more  they  are  good 
at  it!  Come  here,  Pete,  they  shan't  abuse  you! 

Coyotes  and  bobcats  are  medium-size  game,  someone 
ventured  to  point  out. 

Not  at  all,  medium-size  game  should  live  in  holes, 
like  badgers.  Dachshunds  are  evidently  built  for  holes. 
They  are  long  and  low,  and  they  have  spatulate  feet  for 
digging,  and  their  bandy  legs  enable  them  to  throw  the 
dirt  out  behind  them.  Their  long,  sharp  noses  are  like 
tweezers  to  seize  upon  the  medium-size  game.  In  short, 
by  much  repetition,  a  legend  had  grown  up  around  the 

293 


THE    KILLER 

dachshunds,  a  legend  of  fierceness  inhibited  only  by  cir- 
cumstances, of  pathetic  deprivation  of  the  sports  of  their 
native  land.  If  only  we  could  have  a  badger,  we  could 
almost  hear  them  say  to  each  other  in  dog  language,  a 
strong,  morose,  savage  badger!  Alas!  we  are  wasting  our 
days  in  idleness,  our  talents  rust  from  disuse!  Finally, 
Uncle  Jim  Temained  the  only  frankly  skeptical  member, 

At  this  time  there  visited  the  ranch  two  keen  sports- 
men whom  we  shall  call  Charley  and  Tommy;  as  also  several 
girls.  We  burst  on  the  assembled  multitude  with  our  news. 
Immediately  a  council  of  war  was  called.  After  the 
praetors  and  tribunes  of  the  people  had  uttered  their  opin- 
ions, Uncle  Jim  arose  and  spoke  as  follows: 

"Here  is  your  chance  to  make  good,"  said  he,  address- 
ing Mrs.  Kitty.  "Those  badger  hounds  of  yours,  accord- 
ing to  you,  have  just  been  fretting  for  medium-size  game. 
Well,  here's  some.  Bring  out  the  whole  flock,  and  let's 
see  them  get  busy." 

The  proposition  was  received  with  a  shout  of  rapture 
Uncle  Jim  smiled  grimly. 

"Well,  they'll  do  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Kitty,  with  spirit. 

Preparations  were  immediately  under  way.  In  half 
an  hour  the  army  debouched  from  the  ranch  and  strung 
out  single  file  across  the  plain. 

First  came  Uncle  Jim  and  myself  in  the  two-wheeled 
cart  as  scouts  and  guides. 

Followed  the  General  in  his  surrey.  The  surrey  had 
originally  been  intended  for  idle  dalliance  along  country 
lanes.  In  the  days  of  its  glory  it  had  been  upholstered 
right  merrily,  and  around  its  flat  top  had  dangled  a  blithe- 

294 


THE     RANCH 

some  fringe.  Both  the  upholstery  and  fringe  were  still 
somewhat  there.  Of  the  glory  that  was  past  no  other 
reminder  had  persisted.  The  General  sat  squarely  in  the 
middle  of  the  front  seat,  very  large,  erect,  and  imposing, 
driving  with  a  fine  military  disregard  of  hummocks  or  the 
laws  of  equilibrium.  In  or  near  the  back  seat  hovered  a 
tiny  Japanese  boy  to  whom  the  General  occasionally  issued 
short,  sharp,  military  comments  or  commands. 

Then  came  Mrs.  Kitty  and  the  ponies  with  Carrie 
beside  her.  Immediately  astern  of  the  pony  cart  followed  a 
three-seated  carry-all  with  assorted  guests.  This  was 
flanked  by  the  Captain  and  Charley  as  outriders.  The 
rear  was  closed  by  the  Invigorator  filled  with  dachshunds. 
Their  pointed  noses  poked  busily  through  the  slats  of  the 
cage,  and  sniffed  up  over  the  edge  of  the  wagon  box. 

The  rear,  did  I  say?  I  had  forgotten  Mithradates 
Antikamia  Briggs.  The  latter  polysyllabic  person  was 
a  despised,  apologetic,  rangy,  black-and-white  mongrel 
hound  said  to  have  belonged  somewhere  to  a  man  named 
Briggs.  I  think  the  rest  of  his  name  was  intended  as  an 
insult.  Ordinarily  Mithradates  hung  around  the  men's 
quarters  where  he  was  liked.  Never  had  he  dared  seek 
either  solace  or  sympathy  at  the  doors  of  the  great  house; 
and  never,  never  had  he  remotely  dreamed  of  following  any 
of  the  numerous  hunting  expeditions.  That  would  have 
been  lese-majesty,  high  treason,  sublime  impudence,  and 
intolerable  nuisance  to  be  punished  by  banishment  or  death. 
Mithradates  realized  this  perfectly;  and  never  did  he 
presume  to  raise  his  eyes  to  such  high  and  shining  affairs. 

But  to-day  he  followed.    Nobody    was    subsequently 

295 


THE    KILLER 

able  to  explain  why  Mithradates  Antikamia  should  on  this 
one  occasion  so  have  plucked  up  heart.  My  private 
opinion  is  that  he  saw  the  dachshunds  being  taken,  and, 
in  his  uncultivated  manner,  communed  with  himself  as 
follows: 

"Well,  will  you  gaze  on  that!  I  don't  pretend  to  be  in 
the  same  class  with  Old  Ben  or  Young  Ben,  or  even  of 
the  fox  terriers;  but  if  I'm  not  more  of  a  dog  than  that  lot  of 
splay-footed  freaks,  I'll  go  bite  myself!  If  they're  that 
hard  up  for  dogs,  I'll  be  cornswizzled  if  I  don't  go  myself!" 

Which  he  did.  We  did  not  want  him;  this  was  distinctly 
the  dachshunds'  party,  and  we  did  not  care  to  have  any  one 
messing  in.  The  Captain  tried  to  drive  him  back.  Mith- 
radates Antikamia  would  not  go.  The  Captain  dis- 
mounted and  tried  force.  Mithradates  shut  both  eyes, 
crouched  to  the  ground,  and  immediately  weighed]  a  half 
ton.  When  punished  he  rolled  over  and  held  all  four  paws 
in  the  air.  The  minute  the  Captain  turned  his  back,  after 
stern  admonitions  to  "go  home!"  and  "down,  charge!" 
and  the  like,  Mithradates  crawled  slowly  forward  to  the 
waiting  line,  ducking  his  head,  wrinkling  his  upper  lips  in- 
gratiatingly, and  sneezing  in  the  most  apologetic  tones. 
Finally  we  gave  it  up. 

"But,"  we  "saved  our  face,"  "you'll  have  to  behave 
when  we  get  there!" 

So,  as  has  been  said,  Mithradates  Antikamia  Briggs 
brought  up  the  rear. 

Arrived  at  the  tree  the  whole  procession  drew  into 
a  half  circle.  We  unblocked  the  opening,  and  the  In- 
vigorator  was  driven  to  a  spot  beneath  it  so  each  person 

296 


THE     RANCH 

could  take  his  turn  at  standing  on  the  seat  and  peering  down 
the  hole.  The  eyes  still  glowed  like  balls  of  fire. 

Next  the  dachshunds  were  lifted  up  one  by  one  and 
given  a  chance  to  smell  at  the  game.  This  was  to  make 
them  keen.  Held  up  by  means  of  a  hand  held  either  side 
their  chests,  they  curled  up  their  hind  legs  and  tails  and 
seemed  to  endure.  Mrs.  Kitty  explained  that  they  had 
never  been  so  far  off  the  ground  in  their  lives,  and  so  were 
naturally  preoccupied  by  the  new  sensation.  This  sounded 
reasonable,  so  we  placed  them  on  the  ground.  There  they 
sat  in  a  circle  looking  up  at  our  performances,  a  solemn  and 
mild  interest  expressing  itself  in  their  lugubrious  counte- 
nances. A  dachshund  has  absolutely  no  sense  of  humour  or 
lightness  of  spirits.  He  never  cavorts. 

By  sounding  carefully  with  a  carriage  whip  we  deter- 
mined the  depth  of  the  hole,  and  proceeded  to  cut  through 
to  the  bottom.  This  was  quite  a  job,  for  the  oak  was 
tough,  and  the  position  difficult.  Tommy  had  ascended  the 
tree,  and  proclaimed  loudly  the  first  signs  of  daylight  as 
the  axe  bit  through.  Mine  happened  to  be  the  axe  work; 
so  when  I  had  finished  a  neat  little  orifice,  I  swung  up 
beside  Tommy,  and  the  Invigorator  drove  out  of  the 
way. 

My  elevated  position  was  a  good  one;  and  as  Tommy  was 
peering  eagerly  down  the  hole,  I  had  nothing  to  do  but 
survey  the  scene. 

The  rigs  were  drawn  up  in  a  semi-circle  twenty  yards 
away.  Next  the  horses'  heads  stood  the  drivers  of  the 
various  vehicles,  anxious  to  miss  none  of  the  fun.  The 
dachshunds  sat  on  their  haunches,  looking  up,  and  probably 

297 


THE    KILLER 

wondering  why  their  friend,  Tommy,  insisted  on  roosting  up 
a  tree.  The  Captain  and  Charley  were  immediately  below, 
engaged  in  an  earnest  effort  to  poke  the  'coon  into  ascending 
the  hole.  Tommy  was  reporting  the  result  of  these  efforts 
from  above.  The  General,  his  feet  firmly  planted,  had 
un limbered  a  huge  ten-bore  shotgun,  so  as  to  be  ready  for 
anything.  Uncle  Jim  stood  by,  smoking  his  pipe.  Mith- 
radates  Antikamia  Briggs  sat  sadly  apart. 

The  poking  efforts  accomplished  little.  Occasionally 
the  'coon  made  a  little  dash  or  scramble,  but  never  went  far. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  talking,  shouting,  and  advice. 

At  last  Uncle  Jim,  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe, 
moved  into  action.  He  plucked  a  double  handful  of  the  tall, 
dry  grass,  touched  a  match  to  it,  and  thrust  it  in  the  nick. 

Without  the  slightest  hesitation  the  'coon  shot  out  at  the 
top! 

Now  just  at  that  moment  Tommy  happened  to  be 
leaning  over  for  a  right  good  look  down  the  hole.  He  re- 
ceived thirty  pounds  or  so  of  agitated  'coon  square  in  the 
chest.  Thereupon  he  fell  out  of  the  tree  incontinently, 
with  the  'coon  on  top  of  him. 

We  caught  our  breath  in  horror.  Although  we  could 
plainly  see  that  Tommy  was  in  no  degree  injured  by  his 
short  fall,  yet  we  all  realized  that  it  was  going  to  be  serious  to 
be  mixed  up  with  a  raging,  snarling  beast  fight  of  twenty- 
two  members.  When  the  dachshunds  should  pounce  on 
their  natural  prey,  the  medium-size  game,  poor  Tommy 
would  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  heap.  Several  even  started 
forward  to  restrain  the  dogs,  but  stopped  as  they  realized  the 
impossibilities. 

298 


THE     RANCH 

Tommy  and  the  'coon  hit  with  a  thump.  The  dachs- 
hunds took  one  horrified  look;  then  with  the  precision  of  a 
drilled  manoeuvre  they  unanimously  turned  tail  and  plunged 
into  the  tall  grass.  From  my  elevated  perch  I  could  see  it 
waving  agitatedly  as  they  made  their  way  through  it  in  the 
direction  of  the  distant  ranch. 

For  a  moment  there  was  astounded  silence.  Then  there 
arose  a  shriek  of  delight.  The  Captain  rolled  over  and  over 
and  clutched  handfuls  of  turf  in  his  joy.  The  General 
roared  great  salvos  of  laughter.  Tommy,  still  seated 
where  he  had  fallen,  leaned  weakly  against  the  tree,  the  tears 
coursing  down  his  cheeks.  The  rest  of  the  populace  lifted 
up  their  voices  and  howled.  Even  Uncle  Jim,  who  rarely 
laughed  aloud,  although  his  eyes  always  smiled,  emitted 
great  Ho!  hoi's.  Only  Mrs.  Kitty,  dumb  with  indignation, 
stared  speechless  after  that  wriggling  mess  of  fugitives. 

The  occasion  was  too  marvellous.  We  enjoyed  it  to  the 
full.  Whenever  the  rapture  sank  somewhat,  someone 
would  gasp  out  a  half-remembered  bit  of  Mrs.  Kitty's 
former  defences. 

"Their  long,  sharp  noses  are  like  tweezers  to  seize  the 
game!"  declaimed  Charley,  weakly.  [Spasm  by  the  au- 
dience.] 

"Their  spatulate  feet  are  meant  for  digging,"  the  Captain 
took  up  the  tale.  [Another  spasm.] 

"Their  bandy  legs  enabled  them  to  throw  the  dirt  out 
behind  them — as  they  ran,"  suggested  Tommy. 

"If  only  they  could  have  had  a  badger  they'd  have 
beaten  all  records!"  we  chorused. 

And  then  finally  we  wiped  our  eyes  and  remembered  that 

299 


THE    KILLER 

there  used  to  be  a  'coon.  At  the  same  time  we  became 
conscious  of  a  most  unholy  row  in  the  offing:  the  voice  of 
Mithradates  Antikamia. 

"If  you  people  want  your  'coon,"  he  was  remarking 
in  a  staccato  and  exasperated  voice,  "you'd  better  come  and 
lend  a  hand.  /  can't  manage  him  alone !  The  blame  thing 
has  bitten  me  in  three  places  already.  Of  course,  I  like  to 
see  people  have  a  good  time,  and  I  hope  you  won't  curtail 
your  enjoyment  on  my  account;  but  if  you've  had  quite 
enough  of  those  made-in-Germany  imitations,  perhaps 
you'll  just  stroll  over  and  see  what  one  good  American- 
built  DOG  can  do!" 


300 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  SEARCH  OF  ADVENTURE 

Uncle  Jim  had  friends  everywhere.  Continually  we 
were  pulling  up  by  one  of  the  tiny  two-roomed  shacks 
wherein  dwelt  the  small  settlers.  The  houses  were  always 
of  new  boards,  unpainted,  perched  on  four-by-fours,  in  the 
middle  of  bare  ground,  perhaps  surrounded  by  young  pop- 
lars or  cottonwoods,  but  more  likely  fully  exposed  to  the 
sun.  A  trifling  open  shed  protected  a  battered  buggy  on 
the  thills  and  wheels  of  which  perched  numerous  chickens. 
A  rough  corral  and  windmill  completed  the  arrangements. 
Near  the  house  was  usually  a  small  patch  of  alfalfa.  Far- 
ther out  the  owner  was  engaged  in  the  strenuous  occupation 
of  brushing  and  breaking  a  virgin  country. 

To  greet  us  rushed  forth  a  half-dozen  mongrel  dogs,  and 
appeared  a  swarm  of  children,  followed  by  the  woman  of  the 
place.  Uncle  Jim  knew  them  all  by  name,  including  even 
the  dogs.  He  carefully  wound  the  reins  around  the  whip, 
leaned  forward  comfortably,  and  talked.  Henry  dozed; 
and  I  listened  with  interest.  Uncle  Jim  had  the  natural 
gift  of  popularity.  By  either  instinct  or  a  wide  experience 
he  knew  just  what  problems  and  triumphs,  disappointments 
and  perplexities  these  people  were  encountering;  and  he 
plunged  promptly  into  the  discussion  of  them.  Also,  I 
was  never  able  to  make  out  whether  Uncle  Jim  was  a  con- 

301 


THE    KILLER 

srious  or  unconscious  diplomat;  but  certainly  he  knew  how 
judiciously  to  make  use  of  the  subtle  principle,  so  weM 
illustrated  by  Moliere,  that  it  pleases  people  to  confer 
small  favours.  Thus  occasionally  he  gravely  "borrowed" 
a  trifle  of  axle  grease,  which  we  immediately  applied,  or  a 
cup  of  milk,  or  a  piece  of  string  to  mend  something.  When 
finally  our  leisurely  roadside  call  was  at  an  end,  we  rolled 
away  from  unanimously  hearty  signals  of  farewell. 

In  accordance  with  our  settled  feeling  of  taking  things 
as  they  came,  and  trying  for  everything,  we  blundered 
into  varied  experiences,  none  of  which  arrange  themselves  in 
recollection  with  any  pretence  of  logical  order.  Perhaps  it 
might  not  be  a  bad  idea  to  copy  our  method,  to  set  forth  and 
see  where  we  land. 

One  of  the  most  amusing  happened  when  we  were  out  with 
my  younger,  but  not  smaller,  brother.  This  youth  was  at 
that  time  about  eighteen  years  old,  and  six  feet  two  in 
height.  His  age  plus  his  stature  equalled  a  certain  lanki- 
ness.  As  we  drove  peacefully  along  the  highway  we  ob- 
served in  the  adjacent  field  a  coyote.  The  animal  was  some 
three  or  four  hundred  yards  away,  lying  down,  his  head 
between  his  paws,  for  all  the  world  like  a  collie  dog.  Im- 
mediately the  lad  was  all  excitement.  We  pointed  out 
the  well-known  facts  that  the  coyote  is  no  fool  and  is 
difficult  to  stalk  at  best;  that  while  he  is  apparently  tame  as 
long  as  the  wagon  keeps  moving,  he  decamps  when  con- 
vinced that  his  existence  is  receiving  undue  attention; 
that  in  the  present  instance  the  short  grass  would  not 
conceal  a  snake;  and  that,  finally,  a  i6-gauge  gun  loaded 
with  number-six  shot  was  not  an  encouraging  coyote 

302 


THE     RANCH 

weapon.  He  brushed  them  aside  as  mere  details.  So  we 
let  him  out. 

He  dropped  into  the  grass  and  commenced  his  stalk. 
This  he  accomplished  on  his  elbows  and  knees.  A  short 
review  of  the  possibilities  will  convince  you  that  the  sight 
was  unique.  Although  the  boy's  head  and  shoulders  were 
thus  admirably  close  to  the  ground,  there  followed  an 
extremely  abrupt  apex.  Add  the  fact  that  the  canvas 
shooting  coat  soon  fell  forward  over  his  shoulders. 

The  coyote  at  first  paid  no  attention.  As  this  strange 
object  worked  nearer,  he  raised  his  head  to  take  a  look. 
Then  he  sat  up  on  his  haunches  to  take  a  better  look. 
At  this  point  we  expected  him  to  lope  away  instead  of 
which  he  trotted  forward  a  few  feet  and  stopped,  his  ears 
pricked  forward.  There  he  sat,  his  shrewd  brain  alive  with 
conjecture  until,  at  thirty-five  yards,  the  kid  emptied  both 
barrels.  Thereupon  he  died,  his  curiosity  as  to  what  a 
movable  brown  pyramid  might  be  still  unsatisfied. 

Uncle  Jim,  the  kid,  and  I  had  great  fun  cruising  for 
jackrabbits.  Uncle  Jim  sat  in  the  middle  and  drove 
while  the  kid  and  I  hung  our  feet  over  the  sides  and  con- 
stituted ourselves  the  port  and  starboard  batteries.  Bump- 
ing and  banging  along  at  full  speed  over  the  uneven  country, 
we  jumped  the  rabbits,  and  opened  fire  as  they  made  off. 
Each  had  to  stick  to  his  own  side  of  the  ship,  of  course. 
Uncle  Jim's  bird  dog,  his  head  between  our  feet,  his  body 
under  the  seat,  watched  the  proceedings,  whining.  It 
looked  like  good  fun  to  him,  but  it  was  forbidden.  A 
jackrabbit  arrested  in  full  flight  by  a  charge  of  shot  turns 
a  very  spectacular  somersault.  The  dog  would  stand 


THE    KILLER 

about  five  rabbits.  As  the  sixth  turned  over,  he  executed 
a  mad  struggle,  accomplished  a  flying  leap  over  the  front 
wheel,  was  rolled  over  and  over  by  the  forward  momentum 
of  the  moving  vehicle,  scrambled  to  his  feet,  pounced  on 
that  rabbit,  and  most  everlastingly  and  savagely  shook  it 
up!  Then  Uncle  Jim  descended  and  methodically  and 
dispassionately  licked  the  dog. 

Jackrabbits  were  good  small-rifle  game.  They  started 
away  on  a  slow  lope,  but  generally  stopped  and  sat  up  if 
not  too  seriously  alarmed.  A  whistle  sometimes  helped 
bring  them  to  a  stand.  After  a  moment's  inspection  they 
went  away,  rapidly.  With  a  .22  automatic  one  could  turn 
loose  at  all  sorts  of  ranges  at  all  speeds.  It  was  a  good 
deal  of  fun,  too,  sneaking  about  afoot  through  the  low  brush, 
making  believe  that  the  sage  was  a  jungle,  the  tiny  pellets 
express  bullets,  the  rabbits  magnified — I  am  sorry  for  the 
fellow  who  cannot  have  fun  sometimes  "pretending!" 
In  the  brush,  too,  dwelt  little  cottontails,  very  good  to  eat. 
The  jackrabbit  was  a  pest,  but  the  cottontail  was  worth 
getting.  We  caught  sight  of  him  first  in  the  bare  open 
spaces  between  the  bushes,  whereupon  he  proceeded  rapidly 
to  cover.  It  was  necessary  to  shoot  rather  quickly.  The 
inexperienced  would  be  apt  to  run  forward  eagerly,  hoping 
to  atch  a  glimpse  of  the  cottontail  on  the  other  side;  but 
always  it  would  be  in  vain.  That  would  be  owing  to  the 
fact  that  the  little  rabbit  has  a  trick  of  apparently  running 
through  a  brush  at  full  speed,  but  in  reality  of  stopping 
abruptly  and  squatting  at  the  roots.  Often  it  is  possible 
to  get  a  shot  by  scrutinizing  carefully  the  last  place  he  was 
seen.  He  can  stop  as  suddenly  as  a  cow  pony. 

3°4 


THE     RANCH 

Often  and  often,  like  good  strategic  generals,  we  were 
induced  by  circumstances  to  change  our  plans  or  our  method 
of  attack  at  the  last  moment.  On  several  occasions,  while 
shooting  in  the  fields  of  Egyptian  corn,  I  have  killed  a  quail 
with  my  right  barrel  and  a  duck  with  my  left!  Continually 
one  was  crouching  in  hopes,  when  some  unexpected  flock 
stooped  toward  him  as  he  walked  across  country.  These 
hasty  concealments  were  in  general  quite  futile,  for  it  is  a 
fairly  accurate  generalization  that,  in  the  open,  game  will 
see  you  before  you  see  it.  This  is  not  always  true.  I  have 
on  several  occasions  stood  stock  still  in  the  open  plain  until  a 
low-flying  mallard  came  within  easy  range.  Invariably 
the  bird  was  flying  toward  the  setting  sun,  so  I  do  not 
doubt  his  vision  was  more  or  less  blinded. 

The  most  ridiculous  effort  of  this  sort  was  put  into  execu- 
tion by  the  Captain  and  myself. 

Be  it  premised  that  while,  in  the  season,  the  wildfowl 
myriads  were  always  present,  it  by  no  means  followed  that 
the  sportsman  was  always  sure  of  a  bag.  The  ducks  followed 
the  irrigation  water.  One  week  they  might  be  here  in 
countless  hordes;  the  next  week  might  see  only  a  few  coots 
and  hell  divers  left,  while  the  game  was  reported  twenty 
miles  away.  Furthermore,  although  fair  shooting — of  the 
pleasantest  sort,  in  my  opinion — was  always  to  be  had  by 
jumping  small  bands  and  singles  from  the  "holes"  and 
ditches,  the  big  flocks  were  quite  apt  to  feed  and  loaf  in  the 
wide  spaces  discouragingly  free  of  cover.  Irrigation  was 
done  on  a  large  scale.  A  section  of  land  might  be  submerged 
from  three  inches  to  a  foot  in  depth.  In  the  middle 
of  this  temporary  pond  and  a  half  dozen  others  like  it  fed 

305 


THE    KILLER 

the  huge  bands  of  ducks.  What  could  you  do?  There  was 
no  cover  by  which  to  sneak  them.  You  might  build  a  blind, 
but  before  the  ducks  could  get  used  to  its  strange  presence 
in  a  flat  and  featureless  landscape  the  water  would  be 
withdrawn  from  that  piece  of  land.  Only  occasionally, 
when  a  high  wind  drove  them  from  the  open,  or  when  the 
irrigation  water  happened  to  be  turned  in  to  a  brushy 
country,  did  the  sportsman  get  a  chance  at  the  great 
swarms.  Since  a  man  could  get  all  the  ducks  he  could 
reasonably  require,  there  was  no  real  reason  why  he  should 
look  with  longing  on  these  inaccessible  packs,  but  we  all  did. 
It  was  not  that  we  wanted  more  ducks;  for  we  held  strictly 
within  limits,  but  we  wanted  to  get  in  the  thick  of  it. 

On  the  occasion  of  which  I  started  to  tell,  the  Captain 
and  I  were  returning  from  somewhere.  Near  the  Lake- 
side ranch  we  came  across  a  big  tract  of  land  overflowed 
by  not  deeper  than  two  or  three  inches  of  water.  The  ducks 
were  everywhere  on  it.  They  sat  around  fat  and  solemn 
in  flocks;  they  swirled  and  stooped  and  lit  and  rose  again; 
they  fed  busily;  they  streamed  in  from  all  points  of  the 
compass,  cleaving  the  air  with  a  whistling  of  wings. 

Cover  there  was  none.  It  was  exactly  like  a  big,  flat  cow 
pasture  without  any  fences.  We  pulled  up  the  Invigorator 
and  eyed  the  scene  with  speculative  eyes.  Finally,  we  did 
as  follows: 

Into  the  middle  of  that  field  waded  we.  The  ducks,  of 
course,  arose  with  a  roar,  circled  once  out  of  range,  and  de- 
parted. We  knew  that  in  less  than  a  minute  the  boldest 
would  return  to  see  if,  perchance,  we  might  have  been  mere 
passers-by.  Finding  us  still  there,  they  would,  in  the 

306 


THE     RANCH 

natural  course  of  events,  circle  once  or  twice  and  then  depart 
for  good. 

Now  we  had  noticed  this:  ducks  will  approach  to  within 
two  or  three  hundred  yards  of  a  man  standing  upright,  but 
they  will  come  within  one  hundred — or  almost  in  range— 
if  he  squats  and  holds  quite  still.  This,  we  figured,  is  be- 
cause he  is  that  much  more  difficult  to  recognize  as  a  man, 
even  though  he  is  in  plain  sight.  We  had  to  remain  in  plain 
sight;  but  could  we  not  make  ourselves  more  difficult  to 
recognize? 

After  pulling  up  our  rubber  boots  carefully,  we  knelt  in 
the  two  inches  of  water,  placed  our  chests  across  two  wooden 
shell  boxes  we  had  brought  for  the  purpose,  ducked  our 
heads,  and  waited.  After  a  few  moments  overhead  came 
the  peculiar  swift  whistle  of  wings.  We  waited,  rigid. 
When  that  whistle  sounded  very  loud  indeed,  we  jerked 
ourselves  upright  and  looked  up.  Immediately  above  us, 
already  towering  frantically,  was  a  flock  of  sprig.  They 
were  out  of  range,  but  we  were  convinced  that  this  was  only 
because  we  had  mistakenly  looked  up  too  soon. 

It  was  fascinating  work,  for  we  had  to  depend  entirely 
on  the  sense  of  hearing.  The  moment  we  stirred  in  the 
slightest  degree  away  went  the  ducks.  As  it  took  an 
appreciable  time  to  rise  to  our  feet,  locate  the  flock,  and  get 
into  action,  we  had  to  guess  very  accurately.  We  fired  a 
great  many  times,  and  killed  a  very  few;  but  each  duck  was 
an  achievement. 

Though  the  bag  could  not  be  guaranteed,  the  sight  of 
ducks  could.  When  my  brother  went  with  me  to  the 
ranch,  the  duck  shooting  was  very  poor.  This  was  owing 

307 


THE    KILLER 

to  the  fact  that  sudden  melting  of  the  snows  in  the  Sierras 
had  overflowed  an  immense  tract  of  country  to  form  a  lake 
eight  or  nine  miles  across.  On  this  lake  the  ducks  were  safe, 
and  thither  they  resorted  in  vast  numbers.  As  a  con- 
sequence, the  customary  resorts  were  deserted.  We 
could  see  the  ducks,  and  that  was  about  all.  Realizing  the 
hopelessness  of  the  situation  we  had  been  confining  ourselves 
so  strictly  to  quail  that  my  brother  had  begun  to  be  a  little 
sceptical  of  our  wildfowl  tales.  Therefore,  one  day,  I  took 
him  out  and  showed  him  ducks. 

They  were  loafing  in  an  angle  of  the  lake  formed  by  the 
banks  of  two  submerged  irrigating  ditches,  so  we  were 
enabled  to  measure  them  accurately.  After  they  had 
flown  we  paced  off  their  bulk.  They  had  occupied  a  space 
on  the  bank  and  in  the  water  three  hundred  yards  long  by 
fifty  yards  wide;  and  they  were  packed  in  there  just  about  as 
thick  as  ducks  could  crowd  together.  An  able  statistician 
might  figure  out  how  many  there  were.  At  any  rate, 
my  brother  agreed  that  he  had  seen  some  ducks. 

There  was  one  thing  about  Uncle  Jim's  expeditions:  they 
were  cast  in  no  rigid  lines.  Their  direction,  scope,  or  purpose 
could  be  changed  at  the  last  moment  should  circumstances 
warrant. 

One  day  Uncle  Jim  came  after  me  afoot,  with  the  quiet 
assurance  that  he  knew  where  there  were  "some  ducks." 

"Tommy  is  down  there  now,"  said  he,  "in  a  blind. 
We'll  make  a  couple  more  blinds  across  the  pond,  and  in  that 
way  one  or  the  other  of  us  is  sure  to  get  a  shot  at  everything 
that  comes  in.  And  the  way  they're  coming  in  is  scand'- 
lous!" 

308 


THE     RANCH 

Therefore  I  filled  my  pockets  with  duck  shells,  seized  my 
close-choked  i2-bore,  and  followed  Uncle  Jim.  We  walked 
across  three  fields. 

"Those  ducks  are  acting  mighty  queer,"  proffered  Uncle 
Jim  in  puzzled  tones. 

We  stopped  a  moment  to  watch.  Flock  after  flock 
stooped  toward  the  little  pond,  setting  their  wings  and 
dropping  with  the  extraordinary  confidence  wildfowl  some- 
times exhibit.  At  a  certain  point,  however,  and  while  still 
at  a  good  elevation,  they  towered  swiftly  and  excitedly. 

"Doesn't  seem  like  they'd  act  so  scared  even  if  Tommy 
wasn't  well  hid,"  puzzled  Uncle  Jim. 

We  proceeded  cautiously,  keeping  out  of  sight  behind 
some  greasewood,  until  we  could  see  the  surface  of  the  pond. 
There  were  Tommy's  decoys,  and  there  was  Tommy's 
blind.  We  could  not  see  but  that  it  was  a  well-made  blind. 
Even  as  we  looked  another  flock  of  sprig  sailed  down  wind, 
stopped  short  at  a  good  two  hundred  yards,  towered  with 
every  appearance  of  lively  dismay,  and  departed.  Tommy's 
head  came  above  the  blind,  gazing  after  them. 

"They  couldn't  act  worse  if  Tommy  was  out  waving  his 
hat  at  'em,"  said  Uncle  Jim. 

We  climbed  a  fence.  This  brought  us  to  a  slight  eleva- 
tion, but  sufficient  to  enable  us  to  see  abroad  over  the  flat 
landscape. 

Immediately  beyond  Tommy  was  a  long,  low  irrigation 
check  grown  with  soft  green  sod.  On  the  farther  slope 
thereof  were  the  girls.  They  had  brought  magazines  and 
fancy  work,  and  evidently  intended  to  spend  the  afternoon 
in  the  open,  enjoying  the  fresh  air  and  the  glad  sunshine 

309 


THE    KILLER 

and  the  cheerful  voices  of  God's  creatures.  They  were, 
of  course,  quite  unconscious  of  Tommy's  sporting  venture 
not  a  hundred  feet  away.  Their  parasols  were  green,  red, 
blue,  and  other  explosive  tints. 

Uncle  Jim  and  I  sat  for  a  few  moments  on  the  top  of  that 
fence  enjoying  the  view.  Then  we  climbed  softly  down  and 
went  away.  We  decided  tacitly  not  to  shoot  ducks.  The 
nature  of  the  expedition  immediately  changed.  We  spent 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon  on  quail.  To  be  sure  number-five 
shot  in  a  close-choked  twelve  is  not  an  ideal  load  for  the 
purpose;  but  by  care  in  letting  our  birds  get  far  enough 
away  we  managed  to  have  a  very  good  afternoon's  sport. 
And  whenever  we  would  make  a  bad  miss  we  had  ready 
consolation:  the  thought  of  Tommy  waiting  and  wondering 
and  puzzling  in  his  blind. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   GRAND  TOUR 

Almost  always  our  sporting  expeditions  were  of  this 
casual  character,  sandwiched  in  among  other  occupations. 
Guns  were  handy,  as  was  the  game.  To  seize  the  one  and 
pursue  the  other  on  the  whim  of  the  moment  was  the  normal 
and  usual  thing.  Thus  one  day  Mrs.  Kitty  drove  me  over 
to  look  at  a  horse  I  was  thinking  of  buying.  On  the  way 
home,  in  a  corner  of  brush,  I  hopped  out  and  bagged  twelve 
quail;  and  a  little  farther  on,  by  a  lucky  sneak,  I  managed  to 
gather  in  five  ducks  from  an  irrigation  pond.  On  another 
occasion,  having  a  spare  hour  before  lunch,  I  started  out 
afoot  from  the  ranch  house  at  five  minutes  past  eleven, 
found  my  quail  within  a  quarter  mile,  had  luck  in  scattering 
them,  secured  my  limit  of  twenty-five,  and  was  back  at  the 
house  at  twelve  twenty-five!  Before  this  I  had  been  to 
drive  with  Mrs.  Kitty;  and  after  lunch  we  drove  twelve  miles 
to  call  on  a  neighbour.  Although  I  had  enjoyed  a  full 
day's  quail  shoot,  it  had  been,  as  it  were,  merely  an  inter- 
polation. 

Occasionally,  however,  it  was  elected  to  make  a  grand  and 
formal  raid  on  the  game.  This  could  be  either  a  get-up- 
early-in-the-morning  session  in  the  blinds,  a  formal  quail 
hunt,  or  the  Grand  Tour. 

To  take  the  Grand  Tour  we  got  out  the  Liver  Invigorator 

3" 


THE    KILLER 

and  as  many  saddle  horses  as  might  be  needed  to  accommo- 
date the  shooters.  On  reaching  the  hog  field  it  was  proper 
to  disembark,  and  to  line  up  for  an  advance  on  the  corner 
of  the  irrigation  ditch  where  I  had  so  unexpectedly  jumped 
the  ducks  my  first  morning  on  the  ranch.  In  extended  order 
we  approached.  If  ducks  were  there,  they  got  a  great 
hammering.  Everybody  shot  joyously — whether  in  sure 
range  or  not,  it  must  be  confessed.  The  birds  went  into  a 
common  bag,  for  it  would  be  impossible  to  say  who  had 
killed  what.  After  congratulations  and  reproaches,  both 
of  which  might  be  looked  upon  as  sacrifices  to  the  great  god 
Josh,  we  swung  to  the  left  and  tramped  a  half  mile  to  the 
artesian  well.  The  Invigorator  and  saddle  horses  followed 
at  a  respectful  distance.  When  we  had  investigated  the 
chances  at  the  well,  we  climbed  aboard  again  and  rattlety- 
banged  across  country  to  the  Slough. 

The  Slough  comprised  a  wide  and  varied  country.  In 
proper  application  it  was  a  little  winding  ravine  sunk  eight 
or  ten  feet  below  the  flat  plain,  and  filled  with  water.  This 
water  had  been  grown  thick  with  trees,  but  occasionally, 
for  some  reason  to  me  unknown,  the  growth  gave  space  for 
tiny  open  ponds  or  channels.  These  were  further  screened 
by  occasional  willows  or  greasewood  growing  on  the  banks. 
They  were  famous  loafing  places  for  mallards. 

It  was  great  fun  to  slip  from  bend  to  bend  of  the  Slough, 
peering  keenly,  moving  softly,  trying  to  spy  through  the 
thick  growth  to  a  glimpse  of  the  clear  water.  The  ducks 
were  very  wary.  It  was  necessary  to  know  the  exact 
location  of  each  piece  of  open  water,  its  surroundings,  and 
how  best  it  was  to  be  approached.  Only  too  often,  peer  as 

312 


THE     RANCH 

cautiously  as  we  might,  the  wily  old  mallards  would  catch 
a  glimpse  of  some  slight  motion.  At  once  they  would  begin 
to  swim  back  and  forth  uneasily.  Always  then  we  would 
withdraw  cautiously,  hoping  against  hope  that  suspicion 
would  die.  It  never  did.  Our  stalk  would  disclose  to  us 
only  a  troubled  surface  of  water  on  which  floated  lightly  a 
half  dozen  feathers. 

But  when  things  went  right  we  had  a  beautiful  shot. 
The  ducks  towered  straight  up,  trying  to  get  above  the  level 
of  the  brush,  affording  a  shot  at  twenty-five  or  thirty  yards' 
range.  We  always  tried  to  avoid  shooting  at  the  same  bird, 
but  did  not  always  succeed.  Old  Ben  delighted  in  this 
work,  for  now  he  had  a  chance  to  plunge  in  after  the  fallen. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  would  have  been  quite  useless  to  shoot 
ducks  in  these  circumstances  had  we  not  possessed  a  good 
retriever  like  Old  Ben. 

The  Slough  proper  was  about  two  miles  long,  and  had 
probably  eight  or  ten  " holes"  in  which  ducks  might  be  ex- 
pected. The  region  of  the  Slough  was,  however,  a  different 
matter. 

It  was  a  fascinating  stretch  of  country,  partly  marshy, 
partly  dry,  but  all  of  it  overgrown  with  tall  and  rustling 
tules.  These  reeds  were  sometimes  so  dense  that  one  could 
not  force  his  way  through  them;  at  others  so  low  and  thin 
that  they  barely  made  good  quail  cover.  Almost  every- 
where a  team  could  be  driven;  and  yet  there  were  soft  places 
and  water  channels  and  pond  holes  in  which  a  horse  would 
bog  down  hopelessly.  From  a  point  on  the  main  north- 
and-south  ditch  a  man  afoot  left  the  bank  to  plunge  directly 
into  a  jungle  of  reeds  ten  feet  tall.  Through  them  narrow 


THE    KILLER 

passages  led  him  winding  and  twisting  and  doubting  in  a 
labyrinth.  He  waded  in  knee-deep  water,  but  confidently, 
for  he  knew  the  bottom  to  be  solid  beneath  his  feet.  On 
either  side,  fairly  touching  his  elbows,  the  reeds  stood  tall 
and  dense,  so  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  walked  down  a 
narrow  and  winding  hallway.  And  every  once  in  a  while 
the  hallway  debouched  into  a  secret  shallow  pond  lying  in 
the  middle  of  the  tule  jungle  in  which  might  or  might  not  be 
ducks.  If  there  were  ducks,  it  behooved  him  to  shoot  very, 
very  quickly,  for  those  that  fell  in  the  tules  were  probably 
not  to  be  recovered.  Then  more  narrow  passages  led  to 
other  ponds. 

Always  the  footing  was  good,  so  that  a  man  could  strike 
forward  confidently.  But  again  there  are  other  places  in  the 
Slough  region  where  one  has  to  walk  for  half  a  mile  to  pass  a 
miserable  little  trickle  only  just  too  wide  to  step  across. 
The  watercress  grows  thick  against  either  oozy  bank,  leav- 
ing a  clear  of  only  a  foot.  Yet  it  is  bottomless. 

The  Captain  knew  this  region  thoroughly,  and  drove  in 
it  by  landmarks  of  his  own.  After  many  visits  I  myself  got 
to  know  the  leading  "  points  of  interest"  and  how  to  get  to 
them  by  a  set  route;  but  their  relations  one  to  another  have 
always  remained  a  little  vague. 

For  instance,  there  was  an  earthen  reservoir ,  comprising 
two  circular  connecting  ponds,  elevated  slightly  above  the 
surrounding  flats,  so  that  a  man  ascended  an  incline  to  stand 
on  its  banks.  One  half  of  this  reservoir  is  bordered  thickly 
by  tules;  but  the  other  half  is  without  growth.  We  left 
the  Invigorator  at  some  hundreds  of  yards  diataace;  and, 
single  file,  followed  the  Captain.  We  stopped  when  'he  did, 


THE    RANCH 

crawled  when  he  did,  watched  to  see  what  dry  and  rustling 
footing  he  avoided,  every  sense  alert  to  play  accurately  this 
unique  game  of  "follow  my  leader."  He  alone  kept  watch 
of  the  cover,  the  game,  and  the  plan  of  attack.  We  were 
like  the  tail  of  a  snake,  merely  following  where  the  head 
directed.  This  was  not  because  the  Captain  was  so  much 
more  expert  than  ourselves,  but  so  as  to  concentrate  the 
chances  of  remaining  undiscovered.  If  each  of  us  had 
worked  out  his  own  stalk  we  should  have  multiplied  the 
chances  of  alarming  the  game;  we  should  have  created  the 
necessity  for  signals;  and  we  should  have  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  synchronizing  our  arrival  at  the  shooting  point. 
We  moved  a  step  at  a  time,  feeling  circumspectly  before 
resting  our  weight.  At  the  last  moment  the  Captain 
motioned  with  his  hand.  Wriggling  forward,  we  came  into 
line.  Then,  very  cautiously,  we  crawled  up  the  bank  of  the 
reservoir  and  peered  over !  That  was  the  supreme  moment ! 
The  wildfowl  might  arise  in  countless  numbers;  in  which 
case  we  shot  as  carefully  and  as  quickly  as  possible,  reload- 
ing and  squatting  motionless  in  the  almost  certain  hope 
of  a  long-range  shot  or  so  at  a  straggler  as  the  main  body 
swung  back  over  us.  Or,  again,  our  eager  eyes  were  quite 
likely  to  rest  upon  nothing  but  a  family  party  of  mud-hens 
gossiping  sociably. 

Just  beyond  the  reservoir  on  the  other  side  was  an  over- 
flowed small  flat.  It  was  simply  hummocky  solid  ground 
with  a  little  green  grass  and  some  water.  Behind  the 
hummocks,  even  after  a  cannonade  at  the  reservoir,  we  were 
almost  certain  to  jump  two  or  three  single  spoonbills  or  teal. 
Why  they  stayed  there,  I  could  not  tell  you;  but  stay  they 


THE    KILLER 

did.  We  walked  them  up  one  at  a  time,  as  we  would  quail. 
The  range  was  long.  Sometimes  we  got  them;  and  some- 
times we  did  not. 

From  the  reservoir  we  drove  out  into  the  illimitable 
tules.  The  horses  went  forward  steadily,  breasting  the 
rustling  growth.  Behind  them  the  Invigorator  rocked  and 
swayed  like  a  small  boat  in  a  tide  rip.  We  stayed  in  as  best 
we  could,  our  guns  bristling  up  in  all  directions.  The 
Captain  drove  from  a  knowledge  of  his  own.  After  some 
time,  across  the  yellow,  waving  expanse  of  the  rushes,  we 
made  out  a  small  dead  willow  stub  slanted  rakishly.  At 
sight  of  this  we  came  to  a  halt.  Just  beyond  that  stub 
lay  a  denser  thicket  of  tules,  and  in  the  middle  of  them  was 
known  to  be  a  patch  of  open  water  about  twenty  feet  across. 
There  was  not  much  to  it;  but  invariably  a  small  bunch  of 
fat  old  greenheads  were  loafing  in  the  sun. 

It  now  became,  not  a  question  of  game,  for  it  was  always 
there,  but  a  question  of  getting  near  enough  to  shoot. 
To  be  sure,  the  tiny  pond  was  so  well  covered  that  a  stranger 
to  the  country  would  actually  be  unaware  of  its  existence 
until  he  broke  through  the  last  barrier  of  tules;  but,  by  the 
same  token,  that  cover  was  the  noisiest  cover  invented  for 
the  protection  of  ducks.  Often  and  often,  when  still  sixty 
or  seventy  yards  distant,  we  heard  the  derisive  quack, 
quack,  quack,  with  which  a  mallard  always  takes  wing,  and, 
a  moment  later,  would  see  those  wily  birds  rising  above  the 
horizon.  A  false  step  meant  a  crackle;  a  stumble  meant 
a  crash.  We  fairly  wormed  our  way  in  by  inches.  Each 
yard  gained  was  a  triumph.  When,  finally,  after  a  half  hour 
of  Indian  work,  we  had  managed  to  line  up  ready  for  the 

316 


THE    RANCH 

shot,  we  felt  that  we  had  really  a  few  congratulations  com- 
ing. We  knew  that  within  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  floated 
the  wariest  of  feathered  game;  and  absolutely  unconscious 
of  our  presence. 

"Now!"  the  Captain  remarked,  aloud,  in  conversational 
tones. 

We  stood  up,  guns  at  present.  The  Captain's  command 
was  answered  by  the  instant  beat  of  wings  and  the  confused 
quicker  calling  of  alarm.  In  the  briefest  fraction  of  a 
second  the  ducks  appeared  above  the  tules.  They  had  to 
tower  straight  up,  for  the  pond  was  too  small  and  the 
reeds  too  high  to  permit  of  any  sneaking  away.  So  close 
were  they  that  we  could  see  the  markings  of  every  feather — 
the  iridescence  of  the  heads,  the  delicate,  wave-marked  cinna- 
mons and  grays  and  browns,  even  the  absurd  little  curled 
plumes  over  the  tails.  The  guns  cracked  merrily,  the 
shooters  aiming  at  the  up-stretched  necks.  Down  came 
the  quarry  with  mighty  splashes  that  threw  the  water 
high.  The  remnant  of  the  flock  swung  away.  We  stood 
upright  and  laughed  and  joked  and  exulted  after  the  long 
strain  of  our  stalk.  Ben  plunged  in  again  and  again, 
bringing  out  the  game. 

Of  these  tule  holes  there  were  three.  When  we  had 
visited  them  each  in  turn  we  swung  back  toward  the  west. 
There,  after  much  driving,  we  came  to  the  land  of  irrigation 
ditches  again.  At  each  new  angle  one  of  us  would  descend, 
sneak  cautiously  to  the  bank  and,  bending  low,  peer  down 
the  length  of  the  ditch.  If  ducks  were  in  sight,  he  located 
them  carefully  and  then  we  made  our  sneak.  If  not,  we 
drove  on  to  the  next  bend.  Once  we  all  lay  behind  an 


THE    KILLER 

embankment  like  a  lot  of  soldiers  behind  a  breastwork 
while  one  of  us  made  a  long  detour  around  a  big  flock 
resting  in  an  overflow  across  the  ditch.  The  ruse  was 
successful.  The  ducks,  rising  at  sight  of  the  scout,  flew  high 
directly  over  the  ambuscade.  A  battery  of  six  or  eight 
guns  thereupon  opened  up.  I  believe  we  killed  three  or 
four  ducks  among  us;  but  if  we  had  not  brought  down  a 
feather  we  should  have  been  satisfied  with  the  fact  that  our 
stratagem  succeeded. 

So  at  the  last,  just  as  the  sun  was  setting,  we  completed 
the  circle  and  landed  at  the  ranch.  We  had  been  out  all 
day  in  the  warm  California  sun  and  the  breezes  that  blow 
from  the  great  mountains  across  the  plains;  we  had  worked 
hard  enough  to  deserve  an  appetite;  we  had  in  a  dozen  in- 
stances exercised  our  wit  or  our  skill  against  the  keen  senses 
of  wild  game;  we  had  used  our  ingenuity  in  meeting  un- 
expected conditions;  we  had  had  a  heap  of  companionship 
and  good-natured  fun  one  with  another;  we  had  seen  a  lot  of 
country.  This  was  much  better  than  sitting  solitary 
anchored  in  a  blind.  To  be  sure  a  man  could  kill  more 
ducks  from  a  blind;  but  what  of  that? 


318 


CHAPTER  XIII 

RANCH  ACTIVITIES 

Big  as  it  was,  the  ranch  was  only  a  feeder  for  the  open 
range.  Way  down  in  southeastern  Arizona  its  cattle  had 
their  birth  and  grew  to  their  half-wild  maturity.  They 
won  their  living  where  they  could,  fiercely  from  the  fierce 
desert.  On  the  broad  plains  they  grazed  during  the  fat 
season;  and  as  the  feed  shortened  and  withered,  they  retired 
slowly  to  the  barren  mountains.  In  long  lines  they  plodded 
to  the  watering  places;  and  in  long,  patient  lines  they  plodded 
their  way  back  again,  until  deep  and  indelible  troughs 
had  been  worn  in  the  face  of  the  earth.  Other  living 
creatures  they  saw  few,  save  the  coyotes  that  hung  on  their 
flanks,  the  jackrabbits,  the  prairie  dogs,  the  birds  strangely 
cheerful  in  the  face  of  the  mysterious  and  solemn  desert. 
Once  in  a  while  a  pair  of  mounted  men  jog-trotted  slowly 
here  and  there  among  them.  They  gave  way  to  right  and 
left,  swinging  in  the  free  trot  of  untamed  creatures,  their 
heads  high,  their  eyes  wild.  Probably  they  remembered  the 
terror  and  ignominy  and  temporary  pain  of  the  branding. 
The  men  examined  them  with  critical  eye,  and  commented 
technically  and  passed  on. 

This  was  when  the  animals  were  alive  with  the  fat 
grasses.  But  as  the  drought  lengthened,  they  pushed 
farther  into  the  hills  until  the  boldest  or  hardiest  of  them 


THE    KILLER 

stood  on  the  summits,  and  the  weakest  merely  stared  dully 
as  the  mounted  men  jingled  by.  The  desert,  kind  in  her 
bounty,  was  terrible  in  her  wrath.  She  took  her  toll  freely 
and  the  dried  bones  of  her  victims  rattled  in  the  wind.  The 
fittest  survived.  Durham  died,  Hereford  lived  through, 
and  turned  up  after  the  first  rains  wiry,  lean,  and  active. 

Then  came  the  round-up.  From  the  hidden  denies,  the 
buttes  and  ranges,  the  hills  and  plains,  the  cowboys  drew 
their  net  to  the  centre.  Each  "drive"  brought  together  on 
some  alkali  flat  thousands  of  the  restless,  milling,  bawling 
cattle.  The  white  dust  rose  in  a  cloud  against  the  very  blue 
sky.  Then,  while  some  of  the  cowboys  sat  their  horses  as 
sentinels,  turning  the  herd  back  on  itself,  others  threaded  a 
way  through  the  multitude,  edging  always  toward  the 
border  of  the  herd  some  animal  uneasy  in  the  consciousness 
that  it  was  being  followed.  Surrounding  the  main  herd, 
and  at  some  distance  from  it,  other  smaller  herds  rapidly 
formed  from  the  "cut."  Thus  there  was  one  composed 
entirely  of  cows  and  unbranded  calves;  another  of  strays 
from  neighbouring  ranges;  and  a  third  of  the  steers  con- 
sidered worthy  of  being  made  into  beef  cattle. 

In  due  time  the  main  herd  was  turned  back  on  the  range; 
the  strays  had  been  cut  out  and  driven  home  by  the  cow- 
boys of  their  several  owners;  the  calves  had  been  duly 
branded  and  sent  out  on  the  desert  to  grow  up.  But  there 
remained  still  compact  the  beef  herd.  When  all  the  excite- 
ment of  the  round-up  had  died,  it  showed  as  the  tangible 
profit  of  the  year. 

Its  troubles  began.  Driven  to  the  railroad  and  into  the 
corrals,  it  next  had  to  be  urged  to  its  first  experience  of  side- 

320 


THE    RANCH 

door  Pullmans.  There  the  powerful  beasts  went  frantic. 
Pike  poles  urged  them  up  the  chute  into  the  cars.  They 
rushed,  and  hesitated,  and  stopped  and  turned  back  in  a 
panic.  At  times  it  seemed  impossible  to  get  them  started 
into  the  narrow  chute.  On  the  occasion  of  one  after-dark 
loading  old  J.  B.,  the  foreman,  discovered  that  the  excited 
steers  would  charge  a  lantern  light.  Therefore  he  posted 
himself,  with  a  lantern,  in  the  middle  of  the  chute. 
Promply  the  maddened  animals  rushed  at  him.  He 
skipped  nimbly  one  side,  scaled  the  fence  of  the  chute. 
"Now  keep  'em  coming,  boys!"  he  urged. 

The  boys  did  their  best,  and  half  filled  the  car.  Then 
some  other  impulse  seized  the  bewildered  rudimentary 
brains;  the  cattle  balked.  J.  B.  did  it  again,  and  yet  again, 
until  the  cars  were  filled. 

You  have  seen  the  cattle  trains,  rumbling  slowly  along, 
the  crowded  animals  staring  stupidly  through  the  bars. 
They  are  not  having  a  particularly  hard  time,  considering 
the  fact  that  they  are  undergoing  their  first  experience  in 
travelling.  Nowadays  they  are  not  allowed  to  become 
thirsty;  and  they  are  too  car  sick  to  care  about  eating. 
Car  sick?  Certainly;  just  as  you  or  I  are  car  sick,  no 
worse;  only  we  do  not  need  to  travel  unless  we  want  to. 
At  the  end  of  the  journey,  often,  they  are  too  wobbly  to 
stand  up.  This  is  not  weakness,  but  dizziness  from  the 
unwonted  motion.  Once  a  fool  S.P.C.A.  officer  ordered  a 
number  of  the  Captain's  steers  shot  on  the  ground  that  they 
were  too  weak  to  live.  That  greenhorn  got  into  fifty- 
seven  varieties  of  trouble. 

Arrived  at  their  journey's  end  the  steers  were  permitted 

321 


THE    KILLER 

to  get  their  sea  legs  off;  and  then  were  driven  slowly  to  a 
cattle  paradise — the  ranch. 

For  there  was  flowing  water  always  near  to  the  thirsty 
nose;  and  rich  grazing;  and  wonderful  wagons  from  which 
the  fodder  was  thrown  abundantly;  and  pleasant  shade 
from  a  mild  and  beneficent  sun.  The  thin,  wiry  beasts  of 
the  desert  lost  their  angles;  they  became  fat,  and  curly  of 
hair,  and  sleek  of  coat,  and  much  inclined  to  kink  up  their 
tails  and  cavort  off  in  clumsy  buck  jumps  just  from  the  sheer 
joy  of  living.  For  now  they  were,  in  good  truth,  beef 
cattle,  the  aristocracy  of  fifty  thousand,  the  pick  of  wide 
ranges,  the  total  tangible  wealth  of  a  great  principality. 
To  see  them  would  come  red-faced  men  with  broad  hats 
and  linen  dusters;  and  their  transfer  meant  dollars  and 
dollars. 

I  have  told  you  these  things  lest  you  might  have  con- 
cluded that  the  Captain  did  nothing  but  shoot  ducks  and 
quail  and  ride  the  polo  ponies  around  the  enclosure.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  Captain  was  always  going  to  Arizona, 
or  coming  back,  or  riding  here  or  driving  there.  When  we 
went  to  the  ranch,  he  looked  upon  our  visit  as  a  vacation, 
but  even  then  he  could  not  shoot  with  us  as  often  as  we  all 
would  have  liked.  On  the  Arizona  range  were  the  JI 
ranch,  and  the  Circle  I,  and  the  Bar  O,  and  the  Double  R, 
and  the  Box  Springs,  and  others  whose  picturesque  names 
I  have  forgotten.  To  manage  them  were  cowpunchers; 
and  appertaining  thereunto  were. Chinese  cooks,  and  horses, 
and  pump  mules,  and  grub  lists,  and  many  other  things. 
The  ranch  itself  was  even  more  complicated  an  affair;  for, 
as  I  have  indicated,  it  meant  many  activities  besides 

322 


THE    RANCH 

cattle.  And  then  there  was  the  buying  and  selling  and 
shipping.  The  Captain  was  a  busy  man. 

And  the  ranch  was  a  busy  place.  Its  population  swung 
through  the  nations.  Always  the  aristocracy  was  the  cow- 
boy. There  were  not  many  of  him,  for  the  cattle  here  were 
fenced  and  fattened;  but  a  few  were  necessary  to  ride  abroad 
in  order  that  none  of  the  precious  beef  be  mired  down  or 
tangled  in  barbed  wire;  and  that  all  of  it  be  moved  hither 
and  yon  as  the  pasture  varied.  And  of  course  the  driving, 
the  loading  and  unloading  of  fresh  shipments  in  and  out  de- 
manded expert  handling. 

Some  of  them  came  from  the  desert,  lean,  bronzed,  steady- 
eyed  men  addicted  to  "double-barrelled"  (two  cinch) 
saddles,  ox-bow  stirrups,  straight-shanked  spurs,  tall- 
crowned  hats,  and  grass  ropes.  They  were  plain  "cow- 
punchers."  Between  them  and  the  California  "vaqueros," 
or  "buckeroos",  was  always  much  slow  and  drawling 
argument.  For  the  latter  had  been  "raised  different"  in 
about  every  particular.  They  used  the  single-cinch  saddle; 
long  tapaderos,  or  stirrup  hoods;  curve-shanked  spurs  with 
jingling  chains;  low,  wide-brimmed  sombreros  and  rawhide 
ropes.  And  you  who  have  gauged  the  earnestness  of  what 
might  be  called  "equipment  arguments"  among  those  of  a 
gentler  calling,  can  well  appreciate  that  never  did  bunk- 
house  conversation  lack. 

Next  to  these  cow  riders  and  horse  riders  came  probably 
the  mule  drivers.  There  were  many  teams  of  mules,  and 
they  were  used  for  many  things:  such  as  plowing,  cultivat- 
ing, harvesting,  haying,  the  building  of  irrigation  checks  and 
ditches,  freighting,  and  the  like.  A  team  comprised  from 

323 


THE    KILLER 

six  to  twelve  individuals.  The  man  in  charge  had  to  know 
mules — which  is  no  slight  degree  of  special  wisdom;  had  to 
know  loads;  had  to  understand  conditioning.  His  lantern 
was  the  first  to  twinkle  in  the  morning  as  he  doled  out  corn 
to  his  charges. 

Then  came  the  ruck  of  field  hands  of  all  types.  The 
average  field  hand  in  California  is  a  cross  between  a  hobo 
and  a  labourer.  He  works  probably  about  half  the  year. 
The  other  half  he  spends  on  the  road,  tramping  it  from 
place  to  place.  Like  the  common  hobo,  he  begs  his  way 
when  he  can;  catches  freight  train  rides;  consorts  in  thickets 
with  his  kind.  Unlike  the  common  hobo,  however,  he 
generally  has  money  in  his  pocket  and  always  carries  a  bed- 
roll. The  latter  consists  of  a  blanket  or  so,  or  quilt,  and  a 
canvas  strapped  around  the  whole.  You  can  see  him  at  any 
time  plodding  along  the  highways  and  railroads,  the  roll 
slung  across  his  back.  He  much  appreciates  a  lift  in  your 
rig;  and  sometimes  proves  worth  the  trouble.  His  labour 
raises  him  above  the  level  degradation  of  the  ordinary  tramp; 
the  independence  of  his  spirit  gives  his  point  of  view  an 
originality;  the  nomadic  stirring  of  his  blood  keeps  him  going. 
In  the  course  of  years  he  has  crossed  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  state  a  half  dozen  times.  He  has  harvested  apples  in 
Siskiyou  and  oranges  in  Riverside;  he  has  chopped  sugar  pine 
in  the  snows  of  the  Sierras  and  manzanita  on  the  blazing 
hillsides  of  San  Bernardino;  he  has  garnered  the  wheat  of  the 
great  Santa  Clara  Valley  and  the  alfalfa  of  San  Fernando. 
And  whenever  the  need  for  change  or  the  desire  for  a  drink 
has  struck  him,  he  has  drawn  his  pay,  strapped  his  bed  roll, 
and  cheerfully  hiked  away  down  the  long  and  dusty  trail. 

324 


THE    RANCH 

That  is  his  chief  defect  as  a  field  hand — his  unreliability. 
He  seems  to  have  no  great  pride  in  finishing  out  a  job,  al- 
though he  is  a  good  worker  while  he  is  at  it.  The  Captain 
used  to  send  in  the  wagon  to  bring  men  out,  but  refused 
absolutely  to  let  any  man  ride  in  anything  going  the  other 
way.  Nevertheless  the  hand,  when  the  wanderlust  hit  him, 
trudged  cheerfully  the  long  distance  to  town.  I  am  not 
sure  that  a  new  type  is  not  thus  developing,  a  type  as 
distinct  in  its  way  as  the  riverman  or  the  cowboy.  It  is  not 
as  high  a  type,  of  course,  for  it  has  not  the  strength  either  of 
sustained  and  earnest  purpose  nor  of  class  loyalty;  but  still 
it  makes  for  new  species.  The  California  field  hand  has 
mother- wit,  independence,  a  certain  reckless,  you-be-damned 
courage,  a  wandering  instinct.  He  quits  work  not  because 
he  wants  to  loaf,  but  because  he  wants  to  go  somewhere 
else.  He  is  always  on  the  road  travelling,  travelling,  travel- 
ling. It  is  not  hope  of  gain  that  takes  him,  for  in  the  scarcity 
of  labour  wages  are  as  high  here  as  there.  It  is  not  desire 
for  dissipation  that  lures  him  from  labour;  he  drinks  hard 
enough,  but  the  liquor  is  as  potent  here  as  two  hundred 
miles  away.  He  looks  you  steadily  enough  in  the  eye; 
and  he  begs  his  bread  and  commits  his  depredations  half 
humorously,  as  though  all  this  were  fooling  that  both  you 
and  he  understood.  What  his  impelling  motive  is,  I 
cannot  say;  nor  whether  he  himself  understands  it,  this 
restlessness  that  turns  his  feet  ever  to  the  pleasant  Cali- 
fornia highways,  an  Ishmael  of  the  road. 

But  this  very  unreliability  forces  the  ranchman  to  the 
next  element  in  our  consideration  of  the  ranch's  people— 
the  Orientals.  They  are  good  workers,  these  little  brown 

325 


THE    KILLER 

and  yellow  men,  and  unobtrusive  and  skilled.  They  do  not 
quit  until  the  job  is  done;  they  live  frugally;  they  are 
efficient.  The  only  thing  we  have  against  them  is  that  we 
are  afraid  of  them.  They  crowd  our  people  out.  Into  a 
community  they  edge  themselves  little  by  little.  At  the 
end  of  two  years  they  have  saved  enough  capital  to  begin 
to  buy  land.  At  the  end  of  ten  years  they  have  taken  up 
all  the  small  .farms  from  the  whites  who  cannot  or  will  not 
live  in  competition  with  Oriental  frugality.  The  valley,  or 
cove,  or  flat  has  become  Japanese.  They  do  not  amalga- 
mate. Their  progeny  are  Japanese  unchanged;  and 
their  progeny  born  here  are  American  citizens.  In  the  face 
of  public  sentiment,  restriction,  savage  resentment  they 
have  made  head.  They  are  continuing  to  make  head. 
The  effects  are  as  yet  small  in  relation  to  the  whole  of  the 
body  politic;  but  more  and  more  of  the  fertile,  beautiful 
little  farm  centres  of  California  are  becoming  the  breeding 
grounds  of  Japanese  colonies.  As  the  pressure  of  popula- 
tion on  the  other  side  increases,  it  is  not  difficult  to  foresee  a 
result.  We  are  afraid  of  them. 

The  ranchmen  know  this.  "  We  would  use  white  labour/* 
say  they,  "  if  we  could  get  it,  and  rely  on  it.  But  we  cannot ; 
and  we  must  have  labour!"  The  debt  of  California  to  the 
Orientals  can  hardly  be  computed.  The  citrus  crop  is  almost 
entirely  moved  by  them;  and  all  other  produce  depends  so 
largely  on  them  that  it  would  hardly  be  an  exaggeration 
to  say  that  without  them  a  large  part  of  the  state's  produce 
would  rot  in  fields.  We  do  not  want  the  Oriental;  and 
yet  we  must  have  him,  must  have  more  of  him  if  we  are  to 
reach  our  fullest  development.  It  is  a  dilemma;  a  paradox. 

326 


THE    RANCH 

And  yet,  it  seems  to  me,  the  paradox  only  exists  because 
we  will  not  face  facts  in  a  commonsense  manner.  As  I 
remember  it,  the  original  anti-Oriental  howl  out  here  made 
much  of  the  fact  that  the  Chinaman  and  Japanese  saved  his 
money  and  took  it  home  with  him.  In  the  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances we  should  not  object  to  that.  We  cannot  get 
our  work  done  by  our  own  people;  we  are  forced  to  hire  in 
outsiders  to  do  it;  we  should  expect,  as  a  country,  to  pay  a 
fair  price  for  what  we  get.  It  is  undoubtedly  more  desirable 
to  get  our  work  done  at  home;  but  if  we  cannot  find  the  help, 
what  more  reasonable  than  that  we  should  get  it  outside, 
and  pay  for  it?  If  we  insist  that  the  Oriental  is  a  detriment 
as  a  permanent  resident,  and  if  at  the  same  time  we  need  his 
labour,  what  else  is  there  to  do  but  pay  him  and  let  him  go 
when  he  has  done  his  job? 

And  he  will  go  if  pay  is  all  he  gets.  Only  when  he  is 
permitted  to  settle  down  to  his  favourite  agriculture  in  a 
fertile  country  does  he  stay  permanently.  To  be  sure  a 
certain  number  of  him  engages  in  various  other  commercial 
callings,  but  that  number  bears  always  a  very  definite  pro- 
portion to  the  Oriental  population  in  general.  And  it  is 
harmless.  It  is  not  absolute  restriction  of  immigration  we 
want — although  I  believe  immigration  should  be  numeri- 
cally restricted,  but  absolute  prohibition  of  the  right  to 
hold  real  estate.  To  many  minds  this  may  seem  a  denial 
of  the  "equal  rights  of  man."  I  doubt  whether  in  some 
respects  men  have  equal  rights.  Certainly  Brown  has  not 
an  equal  right  with  Jones  to  spank  Jones's  small  boy;  nor  do 
I  believe  the  rights  of  any  foreign  nation  paramount  to  our 
own  right  to  safeguard  ourselves  by  proper  legislation. 

327 


THE    KILLER 

These  economics  have  taken  us  a  long  distance  from  the 
ranch  and  its  Orientals.  The  Japanese  contingent  were 
mainly  occupied  with  the  fruit,  possessing  a  peculiar  deftness 
in  pruning  and  caring  for  the  prunes  and  apricots.  The 
Chinese  had  to  do  with  irrigation  and  with  the  vegetables. 
Their  broad,  woven-straw  hats  and  light  denim  clothes  lent 
the  particular  landscape  they  happened  for  the  moment  to 
adorn  a  peculiarly  foreign  and  picturesque  air. 

And  outside  of  these  were  various  special  callings  rep- 
resented by  one  or  two  men:  such  as  the  stable  men,  the 
bee  keeper,  the  blacksmith  and  wagon-wright,  the  various 
cooks  and  cookees,  the  gardeners,  the  "varmint  catcher," 
and  the  like. 

Nor  must  be  forgotten  the  animals,  both  wild  and  tame. 
Old  Ben  and  Young  Ben  and  Linn,  the  bird  dogs;  the 
dachshunds;  the  mongrels  of  the  men's  quarters;  all  the 
domestic  fowls;  the  innumerable  and  blue-blooded  hogs; 
the  polo  ponies  and  brood  mares,  the  stud  horses  and 
driving  horses  and  cow  horses,  colts,  yearlings,  the  young 
and  those  enjoying  a  peaceful  and  honourable  old  age; 
Pollymckittrick;  Redmond's  cat  and  fifty  others,  half- wild 
creatures;  vireos  and  orioles  in  the  trees  around  the  house; 
thousands  and  thousands  of  blackbirds  rising  in  huge 
swarms  like  gnats;  full- voiced  meadowlarks  on  the  fence 
posts;  herons  stalking  solemnly,  or  waiting  like  so  many 
Japanese  bronzes  for  a  chance  at  a  gopher;  red- tailed 
hawks  circling  slowly;  pigeon  hawks  passing  with  their 
falcon  dart;  little  gaudy  sparrow  hawks  on  top  the  telephone 
poles;  buzzards,  stately  and  wonderful  in  flight,  repulsive 
when  at  rest;  barn-owls  dwelling  in  the  haystacks,  and  horned 

328 


THE    RANCH 

owls  in  the  hollow  trees;  the  game  in  countless  numbers; 
all  the  smaller  animals  and  tiny  birds  in  species  too  nu- 
merous to  catalogue,  all  these  drew  their  full  sustenance  of 
life  from  the  ranch's  smiling  abundance. 

And  the  mules;  I  must  not  forget  them.  I  have  the 
greatest  respect  for  a  mule.  He  knows  more  than  the 
horse;  just  as  the  goose  or  the  duck  knows  more  than  the 
chicken.  Six  days  the  mules  on  the  ranch  laboured;  but 
on  the  seventh  they  were  turned  out  into  the  pastures  to 
rest  and  roll  and  stand  around  gossiping  sociably,  rub- 
bing their  long,  ridiculous  Roman  noses  together,  or  switch- 
ing the  flies  off  one  another  with  their  tasselled  tails.  Each 
evening  at  sunset  all  the  various  teams  came  in  from 
different  directions,  converging  at  the  lane,  and  plodding 
dustily  up  its  length  to  the  sheds  and  their  night's  rest. 
Five  evenings  thus  they  come  in  silence.  But  on  the  sixth 
each  and  every  mule  lifted  up  his  voice  in  rejoicing  over  the 
morrow.  The  distant  wayfarer — familiar  with  ranch  ways 
—hearing  this  strident,  discordant,  thankful  chorus  far 
across  the  evening  peace  of  the  wide  country,  would  thus 
have  known  this  was  Saturday  night,  and  that  to-morrow 
was  the  Sabbath,  the  day  of  rest! 


329 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  HEATHEN 

This  must  be  mainly  discursive  and  anecdotal,  for  no  one 
really  knows  much  more  than  externals  concerning  the 
Chinese.  Some  men  there  are,  generally  reporters  on  the 
big  dailies,  who  have  been  admitted  to  the  tongs;  who  can 
take  you  into  the  exclusive  Chinese  clubs;  who  are  every- 
where in  Chinatown  greeted  cordially,  treated  gratis  to 
strange  food  and  drink,  and  patted  on  the  back  with  every 
appearance  of  affection.  They  can  tell  you  of  all  sorts  of 
queer,  unknown  customs  and  facts,  and  can  show  you  all 
sorts  of  strange  and  unusual  things.  Yet  at  the  last 
analysis  these  are  also  discursions  and  anecdotes.  We 
gather  empirical  knowledge:  only  rarely  do  we  think 
we  get  a  glimpse  of  how  the  delicate  machinery  moves 
behind  those  twinkling  eyes. 

I  am  led  to  these  remarks  by  the  contemplation  of 
Chinese  Charley  at  the  ranch.  He  has  been  with  Mrs. 
Kitty  twenty-five  years;  he  wears  American  clothes;  he 
speaks  English  with  hardly  a  trace  of  either  accent  or  idiom ; 
he  has  long  since  dropped  the  deceiving  Oriental  stolid- 
ity and  weeps  out  his  violent  Chinese  rages  unashamed. 
Yet  even  now  Mrs.  Kitty's  summing  up  is  that  Charley  is  a 
"queer  old  thing." 

If  you  start  out  with  a  good  Chinaman,  you  will  always 

330 


THE    RANCH 

have  good  Chinamen;  if  you  draw  a  poor  one,  you  will 
probably  be  cursed  with  a  succession  of  mediocrities. 
They  pass  you  along  from  one  to  another  of  the  same 
"family";  and,  short  of  the  adoption  of  false  whiskers  and 
a  change  of  name,  you  can  find  no  expedient  to  break  the 
charm.  When  one  leaves  of  his  own  accord,  he  sends  you 
another  boy  to  take  his  place.  When  he  is  discharged,  he 
does  identically  that,  although  you  may  not  know  it. 
Down  through  the  list  of  Gins  or  Sings  or  Ungs  you  slide 
comfortably  or  bump  disagreeably  according  to  your  good 
fortune  or  deserts. 

Another  feature  to  which  you  must  become  accustomed  is 
that  of  the  Unexpected  Departure.  Everything  is  going 
smoothly,  and  you  are  engaged  in  congratulating  yourself. 
To  you  appears  Ah  Sing. 

"I  go  San  Flancisco  two  o'clock  tlain,"  he  remarks. 
And  he  does. 

In  vain  do  you  point  to  the  inconvenience  of  guests,  the 
injustice  thus  of  leaving  you  in  the  lurch;  in  vain  do  you 
threaten  detention  of  wages  due  unless  he  gives  you  what 
your  servant  experience  has  taught  you  is  a  customary 
"week's  warning."  He  repeats  his  remark:  and  goes. 
At  two-fifteen  another  bland  and  smiling  heathen  appears 
at  your  door.  He  may  or  may  not  tell  you  that  Ah  Sing 
sent  him.  Dinner  is  ready  on  time.  The  household  work 
goes  on  without  a  hitch  or  a  tiniest  jar. 

"Ah  Sing  say  you  pay  me  his  money,"  announces  this  new 
heathen. 

If  you  are  wise,  you  abandon  your  thoughts  of  fighting 
the  outrage.  You  pay  over  Ah  Sing's  arrears. 


THE    KILLER 

"By  the  way,"  you  inquire  of  your  new  retainer,  "what's 
your  name?" 

"My  name  Lum  Sing,"  the  newcomer  replies. 

That  is  about  the  way  such  changes  happen.  If  by 
chance  you  are  in  the  good  graces  of  heathendom,  you 
will  be  given  an  involved  and  fancy  reason  for  the  de- 
parture. These  generally  have  to  do  with  the  mysterious 
movements  of  relatives. 

"My  second-uncle,  he  come  on  ship  to  San  Flancisco. 
I  got  to  show  him  what  to  do/'  explains  Ah  Sing. 

If  they  like  you  very  much,  they  tell  you  they  will  come 
back  at  the  end  of  a  month.  They  never  do,  and  by  the 
end  of  the  month  the  new  man  has  so  endeared  himself  to 
you  that  Ah  Sing  is  only  a  pleasant  memory. 

The  reasons  for  these  sudden  departures  are  two-fold  as 
near  as  I  can  make  out.  Ah  Sing  may  not  entirely  like  the 
place;  or  he  may  have  received  orders  from  his  tong  to  move 
on — probably  the  latter.  If  both  Ah  Sing  and  his  tong 
approve  of  you  and  the  situation,  he  will  stay  with  you 
for  many  years.  Our  present  man  once  remained  but  two 
days  at  a  place.  The  situation  is  an  easy  one;  Toy  did 
his  work  well;  the  relations  were  absolutely  friendly.  After 
we  had  become  intimate  with  Toy,  he  confided  to  us  his 
reasons: 

"I  don'  like  stay  at  place  where  nobody  laugh,"  said  he. 

As  servants  the  Chinese  are  inconceivably  quick,  deft, 
and  clean.  One  good  man  will  do  the  work  of  two  white 
servants,  and  do  it  better.  Toy  takes  care  of  us  ab- 
solutely. He  cooks,  serves,  does  the  housework,  and  with 
it  all  manages  to  get  off  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon 

332 


THE    RANCH 

and  nearly  every  evening.  At  first,  with  recollections  of 
the  rigidly  defined  "days  off"  of  the  East,  I  was  a  little 
inclined  to  look  into  this.  I  did  look  into  it;  but  when  I 
found  all  the  work  done,  without  skimping,  I  concluded 
that  if  the  man  were  clever  enough  to  save  his  time,  he  had 
certainly  earned  it  for  himself.  Systematizing  and  no  false 
moves  proved  to  be  his  method. 

Since  this  is  so,  it  follows,  quite  logically  and  justly,  that 
the  Chinese  servant  resents  the  minute  and  detailed 
supervision  some  housewives  delight  in.  Show  him  what 
you  want  done;  let  him  do  it;  criticize  the  result — but  do 
not  stand  around  and  make  suggestions  and  offer  amend- 
ments. Some  housekeepers,  trained  to  make  of  house- 
keeping an  end  rather  than  a  means,  can  never  keep 
Chinese.  This  does  not  mean  that  you  must  let  them  go 
at  their  own  sweet  will:  only  that  you  must  try  as  far  as 
possible  to  do  your  criticizing  and  suggesting  before  or 
after  the  actual  performance. 

I  remember  once  Billy  came  home  from  some  afternoon 
tea  where  she  had  been  talking  to  a  number  of  "conscien- 
tious" housekeepers  of  the  old  school  until  she  had  been 
stricken  with  a  guilty  feeling  that  she  had  been  loafing  on 
the  job.  To  be  sure  the  meals  were  good,  and  on  time; 
the  house  was  clean;  the  beds  were  made;  and  the  comforts 
of  life  seemed  to  be  always  neatly  on  hand;  but  what  of 
that?  The  fact  remained  that  Billy  had  time  to  go  horse- 
back riding,  to  go  swimming,  to  see  her  friends,  and  to 
shoot  at  a  mark.  Every  other  housekeeper  was  busy  from 
morning  until  night;  and  then  complained  that  somehow  or 
other  she  never  could  get  finished  up!  It  was  evident  that 

333 


THE    KILLER 

somehow  Billy  was  not  doing  her  full  duty  by  the  sphere 
to  which  woman  was  called,  etc. 

So  home  she  came,  resolved  to  do  better.  Toy  was 
placidly  finishing  up  for  the  afternoon.  Billy  followed 
him  around  for  a  while,  being  a  housekeeper.  Toy  watched 
her  with  round,  astonished  eyes.  Finally  he  turned  on  her 
with  vast  indignation. 

"Look  here,  Mis'  White,"  said  he.  "What  a  matter  with 
you?  You  talk  just  like  one  old  woman!" 

Billy  paused  in  her  mad  career  and  considered.  That 
was  just  what  she  was  talking  like.  She  laughed.  Toy 
laughed.  Billy  went  shooting. 

After  your  Chinaman  becomes  well  acquainted  with  you, 
he  develops  human  traits  that  are  astonishing  only  in 
contrast  to  his  former  mask  of  absolute  stolidity.  To  the 
stranger  the  Oriental  is  as  impassive  and  inscrutable  as  a 
stone  Buddha,  so  that  at  last  we  come  to  read  his  attitude 
into  his  inner  life,  and  to  conclude  him  without  emotion. 
This  is  also  largely  true  of  the  Indian.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
your  heathen  is  rather  vividly  alive  inside.  His  enjoy- 
ment is  keen,  his  curiosity  lively,  his  emotions  near  the  sur- 
face. If  you  have  or  expect  to  have  visitors,  you  must 
tell  Ah  Sing  all  about  them — their  station  in  life,  their  im- 
portance, and  the  like.  He  will  listen,  keenly  interested, 
gravely  nodding  his  pig- tailed,  shaven  head.  Then,  if 
your  visitors  are  from  the  East,  you  inform  them  of  what 
every  Californian  knows — that  each  and  every  member 
of  a  household  must  say  "good  morning"  ceremoniously  to 
Ah  Sing.  And  Ah  Sing  will  smile  blandly  and  duck  his 
pig-tailed,  shaven  head,  and  wish  each  member  "good 

334 


THE    RANCH 

morning"  back  again.  It  is  sometimes  very  funny  to  hear 
the  matin  chorus  of  a  dozen  people  crying  out  their  volley 
of  salute  to  ceremony;  and  to  hear  again  the  Chinaman's 
conscientious  reply  to  each  in  turn  down  the  long  table — 
" Good  mo'ning,  Mr.  White;  good  mo'ning,  Mis'  White; 

good  mo'ning,  Mr.  Lewis "  and  so  on,  until  each  has 

been  remembered.  There  are  some  families  that,  either 
from  ignorance  or  pride,  omit  this  and  kindred  little 
human  ceremonials.  The  omission  is  accepted;  but  that 
family  is  never  "my  family"  to  the  servant  within  its 
gates. 

For  your  Chinaman  is  absolutely  faithful  and  loyal  and 
trustworthy.  He  can  be  allowed  to  handle  any  amount  of 
money  for  you.  We  ourselves  are  away  from  home  a  great 
deal.  When  we  get  ready  to  go,  we  simply  pack  our  trunks 
and  depart.  Toy  then  puts  away  the  silver  and  valuables 
and  places  them  in  the  bank  vaults,  closes  the  house,  and 
puts  all  in  order.  A  week  or  so  before  our  return  we  write 
him.  Thereupon  he  cleans  things  up,  reclaims  the  valu- 
ables, rearranges  everything.  His  wonderful  Chinese 
memory  enables  him  to  replace  every  smallest  item  exactly 
as  it  was.  If  I  happen  to  have  left  seven  cents  and  an 
empty  .38  cartridge  on  the  southwestern  corner  of  the 
bureau,  there  they  will  be.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
affairs  have  been  at  all  disturbed.  Yet  probably,  if  our 
stay  away  has  been  of  any  length,  everything  in  the  house 
has  been  moved  or  laid  away. 

Furthermore,  Toy  reads  and  writes  English,  and  enjoys 
greatly  sending  us  wonderful  and  involved  reports.  One 
of  them  ended  as  follows:  "The  weather  is  doing  nicely, 

335 


THE    KILLER 

the  place  is  safely  well,  and  the  dogs  are  happy  all  the 
while."  It  brings  to  mind  a  peculiarly  cheerful  picture. 

One  of  the  familiar  and  persistent  beliefs  as  to  Chinese 
traits  is  that  they  are  a  race  of  automatons.  "Tell  your 
Chinaman  exactly  what  you  want  done,  and  how  you  want 
it  done,"  say  your  advisors,  "for  you  will  never  be  able  to 
change  them  once  they  get  started."  And  then  they  will 
adduce  a  great  many  amusing  and  true  incidents  to  il- 
lustrate the  point. 

The  facts  of  the  case  are  undoubted,  but  the  conclusions 
as  to  the  invariability  of  the  Chinese  mind  are,  in  my 
opinion,  somewhat  exaggerated. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  almost  all  Chinese  customs 
and  manners  of  thought  are  the  direct  inverse  of  our  own. 
When  announcing  or  receiving  a  piece  of  bad  news,  for 
example,  it  is  with  them  considered  polite  to  laugh;  while 
intense  enjoyment  is  apt  to  be  expressed  by  tears.  The 
antithesis  can  be  extended  almost  indefinitely  by  the 
student  of  Oriental  manners.  Contemplate,  now,  the  con- 
dition of  the  young  Chinese  but  recently  arrived.  He  is 
engaged  by  some  family  to  do  its  housework;  and,  as  he  is 
well  paid  and  conscientious,  he  desires  to  do  his  best.  But 
in  this  he  is  not  permitted  to  follow  his  education.  Each 
move  he  makes  in  initiative  is  stopped  and  corrected.  To 
his  mind  there  seems  no  earthly  sense  or  logic  in  nine 
tenths  of  what  we  want;  but  he  is  willing  to  do  his 
best. 

"Oh,  well,"  says  he  to  himself,  "these  people  do  things 
crazily;  and  no  well-regulated  Chinese  mind  could  possibly 
either  anticipate  how  they  desire  things  done,  or  figure  out 

336 


THE    RANCH 

why  they  want  them  that  way.  I  give  it  up!  I'll  just 
follow  things  out  exactly  as  I  am  told" — and  he  does  so! 

This  condition  of  affairs  used  to  be  more  common  than  it  is 
now.  Under  the  present  exclusion  law  no  fresh  immigra- 
tion is  supposed  to  be  possible.  Most  of  the  Chinese  ser- 
vants are  old  timers,  who  have  learned  white  people's  ways, 
and — what  is  more  important — understand  them.  They 
are  quite  capable  of  initiative;  and  much  more  intelligent 
than  the  average  white  servant. 

But  a  green  Chinaman  is  certainly  funny.  He  does 
things  forever-after  just  as  you  show  him  the  first  time;  and 
a  cataclysm  of  nature  is  required  to  shake  his  purpose. 
Back  in  the  middle  'eighties  my  father,  moving  into  a  new 
house,  dumped  the  ashes  beside  the  kitchen  steps  pending 
the  completion  of  a  suitable  ash  bin.  When  the  latter 
had  been  built,  he  had  Gin  Gwee  move  the  ashes  from  the 
kitchen  steps  to  the  bin.  This  happened  to  be  of  a  Friday. 
Ever  after  Gin  Gwee  deposited  the  ashes  by  the  kitchen 
steps  every  day;  and  on  Friday  solemnly  transferred  them 
to  the  ash  bin!  Nor  could  anything  persuade  him  to 
desist. 

Again  he  was  given  pail,  soap,  and  brush,  shown  the  front 
steps  and  walk  leading  to  the  gate,  and  set  to  work.  Gin 
Gwee  disappeared.  When  we  went  to  hunt  him  up,  we 
found  him  half  way  down  the  block,  still  scrubbing  away. 
I  was  in  favour  of  letting  him  alone  to  see  how  far  he  would 
go,  but  mother  had  other  ideas  as  to  his  activities. 

These  stories  could  be  multiplied  indefinitely;  and  are 
detailed  by  the  dozen  as  proof  of  the  "stupidity"  of  the 
Chinese.  The  Chinese  are  anything  but  stupid;  and,  as  I 

337 


THE    KILLER 

have  said  before,  when  once  they  have  grasped  the  logic 
of  the  situation,  can  figure  out  a  case  with  the  best  of 
them. 

They  are,  however,  great  sticklers  for  formalism ;  and  dis- 
approve of  any  short  cuts  in  ceremony.  As  soon  leave 
with  the  silver  as  without  waiting  for  the  finger  bowls. 
A  friend  of  mine,  training  a  new  man  by  example,  as  new 
men  of  this  nationality  are  always  trained,  was  showing 
him  how  to  receive  a  caller.  Therefore  she  rang  her  own 
doorbell,  presented  a  card;  in  short,  went  through  the  whole 
performance.  Tom  understood  perfectly.  That  same 

afternoon  Mrs.  G ,  a  next-door  neighbour  and  intimate 

friend,  ran  over  for  a  chat.  She  rang  the  bell.  Tom 
appeared. 

"Is  Mrs.  B at  home?"  inquired  the  friend. 

Tom  planted  himself  square  in  the  doorway.  He  sur- 
veyed her  with  a  cold  and  glittering  eye. 

"You  got  ticket?"  he  demanded.  "You  no  got  ticket, 
you  no  come  in!" 

On  another  occasion  two  ladies  came  to  call  on  Mrs. 

B but  by  mistake  blundered  to  the  kitchen  door. 

Mrs.  B 's  house  is  a  bungalow  and  on  a  corner.  Tom 

appeared. 

"Is  Mrs.  B at  home?"  they  asked. 

"This  kitchen  door;  you  go  front  door,"  requested  Tom, 
politely. 

The  callers  walked  around  the  house  to  the  proper  door, 
rang,  and  waited.  After  a  suitable  interval  Tom  appeared 
again. 

"Is  Mrs.  B at  home?"  repeated  the  visitors. 

338 


THE    RANCH 

"No,  Mrs.  B she  gone  out,"  Tom  informed  them. 

The  proper  ceremonials  had  been  fulfilled. 

To  one  who  appreciates  what  he  can  do,  and  how  well  he 
does  it;  who  can  value  absolute  faithfulness  and  honesty; 
who  confesses  a  sneaking  fondness  for  the  picturesque  as 
nobly  exemplified  in  a  clean  and  starched  or  brocaded 
heathen;  who  understands  how  to  balance  the  difficult  poise, 
supervision,  and  interference,  the  Chinese  servant  is  the  best 
on  the  continent.  But  to  one  who  enjoys  supervising  every 
step  or  who  likes  well-trained  ceremony,  "good  form"  in 
minutiae,  and  the  deference  of  our  kind  of  good  training  the 
heathen  is  likely  to  prove  disappointing.  When  you  ring 
your  friend's  door-bell,  you  are  quite  apt  to  be  greeted  by  a 
cheerful  and  smiling  "hullo!"  I  think  most  Calif ornians 
rather  like  the  entirely  respectful  but  freshly  unconven- 
tional relationship  that  exists  between  the  master  and  his 
Chinese  servant.  I  do.* 


*This  chapter  was  written  in  the — alas— vanished  past! 


339 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  LAST  HUNT 

Of  ail  ranch  visits  the  last  day  neared.  Always  we 
forgot  it  until  the  latest  possible  moment;  for  we  did  not 
like  to  think  of  it.  Then,  when  the  realization  could  be  no 
longer  denied,  we  planned  a  grand  day  just  to  finish  up  on. 
The  telephone's  tiny,  thin  voice  returned  acceptances  from 
distant  neighbours;  so  bright  and  early  we  waited  at  the 
cross-roads  rendezvous. 

And  from  the  four  directions  they  came,  jogging  along  in 
carts  or  spring-wagons,  swaying  swiftly  in  automobiles 
whose  brass  flashed  back  the  early  sun.  As  each  vehicle 
drew  up,  the  greetings  flew,  charged  electrically  with  the  dry, 
chaffing  humour  of  the  out  of  doors.  When  we  finally 
climbed  the  fence  into  the  old  cornfield  we  were  almost  a 
dozen.  There  were  the  Captain,  Uncle  Jim,  and  myself  from 
the  ranch;  and  T  and  his  three  sons  and  two  guests  from 
Stockdale  ranch;  the  sporting  parson  of  the  entire  neigh- 
bourhood, and  Dodge  and  his  three  beautiful  dogs. 

Spread  out  in  a  rough  line  we  tramped  away  through 
the  dried  and  straggling  ranks  of  the  Egyptian  corn. 
Quail  buzzed  all  around  us  like  angry  hornets.  We  did  not 
fire  a  shot.  Each  had  his  limit  of  twenty-five  still  before 
him,  and  each  wanted  to  have  all  the  fun  he  could  out  of 
getting  them.  Shooting  quail  in  Egyptian  com  is,  com- 

340 


THE    RANCH 

paratively  speaking,  not  much  fun.  We  joked  each 
other,  and  whistled  and  sang,  and  trudged  manfully  along, 
gun  over  shoulder.  The  pale  sun  was  strengthening;  the 
mountains  were  turning  darker  as  they  threw  aside  the 
filmy  rose  of  early  day;  in  tree  tops  a  row  of  buzzards  sat, 
their  wings  outspread  like  the  heraldic  devices  of  a  foreign 
nation.  Thousands  of  doves  whistled  away;  thousands  of 
smaller  birds  rustled  and  darted  before  our  advancing  lines; 
tens  of  thousands  of  blackbirds  sprinkled  the  bare  branches 
of  single  trees,  uttering  the  many-throated  multitude  call; 
underneath  all  this  light  and  joyous  life  the  business-like 
little  quail  darted  away  in  their  bullet  flight. 

Always  they  bore  across  our  front  to  the  left;  for  on  that 
side,  paralleling  our  course,  ran  a  long  ravine  or  "dry 
slough."  It  was  about  ten  feet  deep  on  the  average, 
probably  thirty  feet  wide,  and  was  densely  grown  with  a 
tangle  of  willows,  berry  vines,  creepers,  wild  grape,  and  the 
like.  Into  this  the  quail  pitched. 

By  the  time  we  had  covered  the  mile  length  of  that 
cornfield  we  had  dumped  an  unguessable  number  of  quail 
into  that  slough. 

Then  we  walked  back  the  entire  distance — still  with 
our  guns  over  our  shoulders — but  this  time  along  the  edge  of 
the  ravine.  We  shouted  and  threw  clods,  and  kicked  on  the 
trees,  and  rattled  things,  urging  the  hidden  quail  once  more 
to  flight.  The  thicket  seemed  alive  with  them.  We  caught 
glimpses  as  they  ran  before  us,  pacing  away  at  a  great  rate, 
their  feathers  sleek  and  trim;  they  buzzed  away  at  bewilder- 
ing pitches  and  angles ;  they  sprang  into  the  tops  of  bushes, 
cocking  their  head  plumes  forward.  Their  various  clicking 

34i 


THE    KILLER 

undercalls,  chatterings,  and  chirrings  filled  the  thicket  as 
full  of  sound  as  of  motion.  And  in  the  middle  distance 
before  and  behind  us  they  mocked  us  with  their  calls. 

"You  can't  shoot!    You  can't  shoot!" 

Some  of  them  flew  ever  ahead,  some  of  them  doubled- 
back  and  dropped  into  the  slough  behind  us;  but  a  propor- 
tion broke  through  the  thicket  and  settled  in  the  wide 
fields  on  the  other  side.  After  them  we  went,  and  for  the 
first  time  opened  our  guns  and  slipped  the  yellow  shells 
into  the  barrels. 

For  this  field  on  the  other  side  was  the  wide,  open  plain; 
and  it  was  grown  over  by  tiny,  half-knee  high  thickets 
of  tumbleweed  with  here  and  there  a  trifle  of  sagebrush. 
Between  these  miniature  thickets  wound  narrow  strips  of 
sandy  soil,  like  streams  and  bays  and  estuaries  in  shape. 
We  knew  that  the  quail  would  lie  well  here,  for  they  hate  to 
cross  bare  openings. 

Therefore,  we  threw  out  our  skirmish  line,  and  the 
real  advance  in  force  began. 

Every  man  retrieved  his  own  birds,  a  matter  of  some 
difficulty  in  the  tumbleweed.  While  one  was  searching,  the 
rest  would  get  ahead  of  him.  The  line  became  disorganized, 
broke  into  groups,  finally  disintegrated  entirely.  Each 
man  hunted  for  himself,  circling  the  tumbleweed  patches, 
combing  carefully  their  edges  for  the  quail  that  sometimes 
burst  into  the  air  fairly  at  his  feet.  When  he  had  killed  one, 
he  walked  directly  to  the  spot.  On  the  way  he  would  flush 
two  or  three  more.  They  were  tempting;  but  we  were  old 
hands  at  the  sport,  and  we  knew  only  too  well  that  if  we 
yielded  so  far  as  to  shoot  a  second  before  we  had  picked  up 

342 


THE    RANCH 

the  first,  the  probabilities  were  strong  that  the  first  would 
never  be  found.  In  this  respect  such  shooting  requires 
good  judgment.  It  is  generally  useless  to  try  to  shoot  a 
double,  even  though  a  dozen  easy  shots  are  in  the  air  at 
once;  and  yet,  occasionally,  on  a  day  when  Koos-ey-oonek 
is  busy  elsewhere,  it  may  happen  that  the  birds  flush  across  a 
wide,  bare  space.  It  is  well  to  keep  a  weather  eye  open  for 
such  chances. 

With  a  green  crowd  and  in  different  cover  such  shooting 
might  have  been  dangerous;  but  with  an  abundance  of  birds, 
in  this  wide,  open  prairie,  cool  heads  knew  enough  to  keep 
wide  apart  and  to  look  before  they  shot.  The  fun  grew 
fast  and  furious;  and  the  guns  popped  away  like  fire- 
crackers. In  fact,  the  fun  grew  a  little  too  fast  and  furious 
to  suit  Dodge. 

Dodge  had  beautiful  and  well-trained  dogs.  Ordinarily 
any  one  of  us  would  have  esteemed  it  a  high  privilege  to  shoot 
over  them.  In  fact,  I  have  often  declared  myself  to  the 
effect  that  of  the  three  elements  of  pleasure  comprehended  in 
field  shooting  that  of  working  the  dogs  was  the  chief.  Just 
as  it  is  better  to  catch  one  yellowtail  on  a  nine-ounce  rod 
than  twenty  on  a  hand  line,  so  it  is  better  to  kill  one  quail 
over  a  well- trained  dog  than  a  half  dozen  "  Walking  'em 
up."  But  this  particular  case  was  different.  We  were  out 
for  a  high  old  time;  and  part  of  a  high  old  time  was  a  wild 
and  reckless  disregard  of  inhibitive  sporting  conventions. 
The  birds  were  here  literally  in  thousands.  Not  a  third 
had  left  the  slough  for  this  open  country;  we  could  not 
shoot  at  a  tenth  of  those  flushed,  yet  the  guns  were  popping 
continuously.  Everybody  was  shooting  and  laughing  and 

343 


THE    KILLER 

running  about.  The  game  was  to  pelt  away,  retrieve  your 
bird  as  quickly  as  you  could,  and  pelt  away  again.  The 
dogs,  working  up  to  their  points  carefully  and  stylishly, 
as  good  dogs  should,  were  being  constantly  left  in  the  rear. 
They  drew  down  to  their  points — and  behold  nobody  but 
their  devoted  master  would  pay  any  attention  to  their  bird ! 
Everybody  else  was  engaged  busily  in  popping  away  at  any 
one  of  the  dozen-odd  other  birds  to  be  had  for  the  selection ! 

Poor  Dodge,  being  somewhat  biased  by  the  accident  of 
ownership,  looked  on  us  as  a  lot  of  barbarians — as,  for  the 
time  being,  we  were;  nice,  happy  barbarians  having  a  good 
time.  He  worked  his  dogs  conscientiously,  and  muttered 
in  his  beard.  The  climax  came  when,  in  the  joyous  excite- 
ment of  the  occasion,  someone  threw  out  a  chance  remark  on 

"those dogs"  being  in  the  way.  Then  Dodge  withdrew 

with  dignity.  Having  a  fellow-feeling  as  a  dog-handler  I 
went  over  to  console  him.  He  was  inconsolable;  and  so 
remained  until  after  lunch. 

In  this  manner  we  made  our  way  slowly  down  the  length 
of  the  slough,  and  then  slowly  back  again.  Of  the  birds 
originally  flushed  from  the  Egyptian  corn  into  the  thicket 
but  a  small  proportion  had  left  that  thicket  for  the  open 
country  of  the  tumbleweed  and  sage;  and  of  the  latter  we 
had  been  able  to  shoot  at  a  very,  very  small  percentage. 
Nevertheless,  when  we  emptied  our  pockets,  we  found  that 
each  had  made  his  bag.  We  counted  them  out,  throwing 
them  into  one  pile. 

"Twenty-four,"  counted  the  Captain. 

"Twenty-four,"  Tom  enumerated. 

"Twenty-four,"  Uncle  Jim  followed  him. 

344 


THE    RANCH 

We  each  had  twenty-four.  And  then  it  developed  that 
every  man  had  saved  just  one  bird  of  his  limit  until  after 
lunch.  No  one  wanted  to  be  left  out  of  all  the  shooting 
while  the  rest  filled  their  bags;  and  no  one  had  believed  that 
anybody  but  himself  had  come  so  close  to  the  limit. 

So  we  laughed,  and  shouldered  our  guns,  and  trudged 
across  country  to  the  clump  of  cottonwood  where  already 
the  girls  had  spread  lunch. 

That  was  a  good  lunch.  We  sat  under  shady  trees,  and 
the  sunlit  plains  stretched  away  and  away  to  distant  calm 
mountains.  Near  at  hand  the  sparse  gray  sagebrush 
reared  its  bonneted  heads;  far  away  it  blurred  into  a  mono- 
chrome where  the  plains  lifted  and  flowed  molten  into  the 
canons  and  crevices  of  the  foothills.  Numberless  crows, 
blackbirds,  and  wildfowl  crossed  and  recrossed  the  very 
blue  sky.  A  gray  jackrabbit,  thinking  himself  concealed 
by  a  very  creditable  imitation  of  a  sacatone  hummock,  sat 
motionless  not  seventy  yards  away. 

After  lunch  we  moved  out  leisurely  to  get  our  one  bird 
apiece.  Some  of  the  girls  followed  us.  We  were  now 
epicures  of  shooting,  and  each  let  many  birds  pass  before 
deciding  to  fire.  Some  waited  for  cross  shots,  some  for  very 
easy  shots,  some  for  the  most  difficult  shots  possible.  Each 
suited  his  fancy. 

"I'm  all  in,"  remarked  each,  as  he  pocketed  his  bird;  and 
followed  to  see  the  others  finish. 

Next  day,  our  baggage  piled  in  most  anywhere,  our  fare- 
wells all  said,  we  bowled  away  toward  town  in  the  brand-new 
machine.  Redmond  sat  in  the  front  seat  with  the  chauffeur. 

345 


THE    KILLER 

It  was  his  first  experience  in  an  automobile,  and  he  sat  very 
rigidly  upright,  eyes  front,  his  moustaches  bristling. 

Now  at  a  certain  point  on  the  road  lived  a  large  black 
dog — just  plain  ranch  dog — who  was  accustomed  to  come 
bounding  out  to  the  road  to  run  alongside  and  bark  for  an 
appropriate  interval.  This  was  an  unvarying  ceremony. 
He  was  a  large  and  prancing  dog;  and,  I  suppose  from  his 
appearance,  must  have  been  named  Carlo.  In  the  course  of 
our  many  visits  to  the  ranch  we  grew  quite  fond  of  the 
dog,  and  always  looked  as  hard  for  him  to  come  out  as  he 
did  for  us  to  come  along. 

This  day  also  the  dog  came  forth;  but  now  he  had  no 
steady-trotting  ranch  team  to  greet.  The  road  was  smooth 
and  straight,  and  the  car  was  hitting  thirty-five  miles  an 
hour.  The  dog  bounded  confidently  down  the  front  walk, 
leaping  playfully  in  the  air,  opened  his  mouth  to  bark — and, 
behold!  the  vehicle  was  not  within  range  any  more,  but 
thirty  yards  away  and  rapidly  departing.  So  Carlo  shut 
his  mouth  and  got  down  to  business.  For  three  hundred 
yards  he  managed  to  keep  pace  alongside;  but  the  effort 
required  all  his  forces;  not  once  did  he  manage  to  gather 
wind  for  even  a  single  bark. 

Redmond  in  the  front  seat  sat  straighter  than  ever.  From 
his  lordly  elevation  he  waved  a  lordly  hand  at  the  poor  dog. 

"Useless !    Useless ! "  said  he,  loftily. 

And  looking  back  at  the  dog  seated  panting  in  a  rapidly 
disappearing  distance,  we  saw  that  he  also  knew  that  the  Old 
Order  had  changed. 

THE  END 

346 


THE   COUNTRY   LIFE   PRESS 
GARDEN   CITY,  N.   Y. 


"ORED  AT  NRLF 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


.'UL  26  1972 


100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


3  2106  00215  4901 


